Arrogant rain
spits violence in my face
whatever way I turn;
pursuing and taunting.
Spiteful playground bullies
and malefic Brandt line despots alike
yearn for such unassailable power.
So what recourse have I -
here on this shelterless street?
Neither protest nor revolution
can threaten to turn or topple this
regime of icy wetness.
And yet somewhere in the lining of this coat
must linger a scent of Jacobin conspiracy,
because my spirit refuses to be broken.
Each forward step has become an act of resistance,
calling forward the day
when I will stand -
here on this shelterless street -
and bathe my face in the light
of a gentle and gracious sun.
