Rain, Rain. Stay and Play

Rainy days, Rainy days. Beautiful rainy days. The kind of day that drenches any part of you that strays from under the octagon canopy of an umbrella. The people caught without umbrellas are soaked through all their clothing. Every so often, a beautiful woman will get caught in a white blouse and be topless for a short time, topless while a sea of hungry eyes gawk at her poor nipples.

(No, you jackals. I didn't take her picture. She had enough assholes looking at her)

The rain ebbs and flows all day long, sometimes. It has a rhythm to it. A smell. If you're with it, you can play along. Pay attention, and the rain will tell you when to move, and when to hide from it's anger. It will tell you when it's in a bad mood, or a sweet one.


But no one wants to listen to the rain around the Yawkey building. No one wants to learn her ways. I think, maybe that they are afraid they'll melt like bad acting and green pancake makeup. Dismal, they say about the rain. Ugly, they label her. How dare she make them put away their phones. How dare she make them wear plastic clothes and big ugly boots. How dare she take away their face-paint and hair spray.

No one wants to dance in the rain. But I do.