Someone stops over unannounced like the old days,
so I pop open that bottle of Sancerre I’ve been saving.
Talk turns to carp that reached the roadway
after Thursday’s three inches of rain, how some said
Invasive, let them die, others said Naturalized,
let them live, someone asked for a net and
others said
they’d catch them with their hands. I could
never do what the raccoon does, tossing
pink petals, or could I? We go to the club that
turns gay only on Saturday nights. In the morning,
I’m still gay, thank god. But the rain, it’s returning.
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