It Always Rains In Brooklyn Poem by Ben Partenay

there are matters of the mind
that twist and bend and leak
like old pipes long patched
and rusted yellow through.

I have tied and retied, patched
and repatched, held a bucket
to collect my sorrows, told
myself it always rains in Brooklyn.

you are my lady of the rain that
no patch held and lept
like a waterfall in the back
of my mind, down beautiful

shadows clinging together
past the pails of years and the
sorrows of a tired man, the
ceiling fan’s a thundercloud.

what you are is matters of
the mind and all that matters
is the romance of a boiling rain.
pipes burst, a heart beats mad.