A. B. Schwartzkopf

I found a window that had water pouring down it.

The sky was clear, and there wasn’t a broken pipe,

but there it was, drenched with a continuous flow.

So I stopped to stare at it, and I thought:

“What a great idea for a poem!”

Except I’m convinced that I don’t like poetry,

for writing and even less for reading,

but I stayed and watched that rainy window.

What did it look like from the inside?

Did someone stare out, thinking the day was

gloomy even though it was not?

Do we get stuck behind our own rainy windows?

Wait, stop the poetic voice!

She makes sad observations.

I walked away quickly, but the scene replayed.

Rainy windows ruin perfectly good days.