Rain Poem by Dan Uriel

I stand in a puddle with my feet
to the puddle - that's his job
he comes out with a coated tail
the web that smells on my feet
I'll whistle for steam coming
so thoughtfully, like the bagpiper
I whistled to an earlier age...
It rains to grow mud on my feet
beets, a pious whitewash
and I listen to my thinking
the rain falls on the barefoot
for unemployed workers
falls on the trembling age
on the soft ground, property
cushioned, civilian homes
fall, fall, because that's his business