Because the rain comes through the roof,
and there you are again,
rain behind the chimney flashing in the wind and flashing,
pooling on the attic boards
where your things are boxed,
spreading dark into the tongues and grooves,
dripping through the ceiling tile to find me
where i sleep alone,
works of the poets and Irish plays above me,
the handwriting of friends, your ball glove and your globe,
your thimbles and your dolls, things I cannot hold,
where grief is stored,
because the rain comes through the roof,
and there you are again.
