machine gun rain storm
on a tin roof shoots off
the rusty corrugation
and falls, splashing
into instant puddles
just below the dripline
just outside the roadside
open walled cafe
a rooster shoos his hens
to shelter from the squall
a mynah bird mutters
mynah commentary
from his cage and watches
the commotion of the chickens
and a litter of skinny cats.
he sighs and whistles
the travelers sip their
cans of chilled sweet coffee
and listen to the girl
across the country road
practicing the king's song
on her flute and stumbling
on the same notes each time
until a small boy lures her
out into the warm barrage
to chase him through
the dimpled puddles
giggling and dodging
they pause, and she resumes
her flute rehearsal and her mistakes
the rain breaks for a moment
and the chickens come out
from cover eyeing worms
in the soggy grass, the kittens
peek out from under a stack
of wooden crates and jerry cans
a squadron of teens on scooters
tee shirts plastered to their backs
and girlfriends tight clutched
to their waists, hurry back to town
the mynah casts an eye towards
the travelers and chuckles:
do you have somewhere to go?
some ruins to see, some worthwhile
itinerary? but stay, if you wish
and listen to the flute, the rush
of rain on tin, and breathe
the scent of flowered offerings
and storm washed streets.
watch the candles float between
the lotus at the festival,
the breeze will stir the flames
before you fall asleep
watching chinese television
or sit out in the night watching
geckos bark out their territories
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