Plink

The rain in Los Angeles
Hesitates like a wave,
Stalled by a tied tally.
Whether or not to weather?
The drops, like lover’s spats,
Range from slight speckles
To slaps of splats.
The sky waits, agape,
For a rating.

The rain in New York
Enchants you, at first-
The scent of the soles
Of a million drained souls
On drowned concrete.
It teases, tickles, and trickles.
Then it builds to a bullying bay.
Until, trudging
Through leaves, oil, and waste,
You’re left with its acrid taste.

The rain in Miami
Is sultry,
Pooling slyly in dry places.
Its rhythm, a welcome relief.
The sweat of the city
Between boundless bouts
Of dance and drink.
It’s a plink
Of a cool cube of ice
As it taps a perspiring glass.

The rain in Seattle
Is light on the righteous cheeks
Of sprightly artists
And aspiring thugs.
It mists, but wants to flood.
To pour underground.
To course through intangible trenches.