48 Hours After You Left

The telephone
has put on a bathrobe
complaining that my constant staring
makes it feel naked.
And I find myself out in the street
interrogating raindrops
as to your whereabouts.
This one particular raindrop
keeps being very evasive, answering in metaphors
(I may have to get rough.)
Happiness stumbles along
smelling of Mad Dog
and mumbo sauce,
wearing cheap sneakers
with holes the size of a headache
and a shirt that reads
like a menu of stains.
I've begun bottling my tears
to serve as holy water
and all the vowels
in my vocabulary
are now lookouts
on my windowsill
waiting to trumpet
your return.

by D.J. Renegade