A Poem from Little Rock

  • It starts to rain
  • as I am walking back to my car
  • after the bridge.
  •  
  • Big, thick drops.
  • Bolder and louder than where I come from.
  • The kind of drops that celebrations are made for.
  •  
  • They hit the hot pavement with such force
  • that small bits of sand leap from the asphalt
  • and land in my sandals.
  • Gritty on my skin, I walk faster
  • and feel the ground steaming around my feet.
  •  
  • It feels like release,
  • like the tears that finally come
  • after weeks of welling in the back of your eyes.
  •  
  • Like an ending. 
  •  
  • I get to my car,
  • windshield finally free from weeks of accumulating desert and sun and birdshit.
  • Cleansed of the film of dust and grime
  • unique to festival parking lots-
  •  
  • the kind that still smells faintly of pot smoke
  • and barbecue
  • and the 3am love song that slowly meanders from one key to another
  • in soft and affectionate drunkenness, 
  • searching for its tent in the dark.
  •  
  • The rain is a reminder,
  • familiar and distinctly new,
  • that the thread of you cannot be escaped, no matter how far you go.
  •  
  • Loves form and falter
  • Songs are sung
  • Old ones die, new ones live
  • Everyone is afraid of something.
  •  
  • It matters a lot.
  • And then it doesn’t.
McKain Lakey