In The End The Rain Comes Down Poem by Alex Garr

The sound of water on water
Echos down the alley.
It’s a soft sound,
Almost soothing.
I look up at the dark clouds
Above. A few drops land on my face.
They’re cool, but not terribly so.

I lean up against the rough bricks,
Their coarse sides digging painlessly
Into my back. The water is coming down
Harder now. Beyond the shadows of the alley,
The seaside street begins to bustle with activity;
People start to scramble for cover.
They wrap their jackets around their bodies,
Clasping them at the collars,
While others throw open nylon umbrellas,
And still others place the day’s newspaper
Over their heads.

Past the swarming street,
The waters of the harbor begin
To toss and tumble.
The docks sway with the motion of the ocean
And boats are cast about,
Listing heavily to either side.
Cloth sails flap noisily in the wind.

I walk to the edge of the street,
Right up to the low, stone wall.
Small waves slosh against the lichen-covered
Rocks at the bottom,
Making a rhythmic racket.

I stand there for what feels like hours,
Letting the rain run down my face,
My linen rags clinging to my
Emaciated form.

For once in my life,
Hunger does not disturb my thoughts.
For once,
I am at peace.