Wet Red Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Wet Red

When a raindrop hits the roof
Or the surface of the sea
Or some window
Or the wing of a bird
Or a leaf on a tree
Or falls on a child's head,
No more is a raindrop
It become a story written
Somehow, with its wetness.

With its death the drop can
Orate, amuse, create
New facts, fantasies
For those hearts in waiting.

But when on its way,
Leaving the cloud, mother,
It is a dream, becoming
A story to be told.

How is the question?
What is the question?
Where is the question?

Imagine a man in a car,
Asleep, and drunk
Then a call
And the police arrive
Full of power and proud
Filled with the confidence:
"Your pistol is the ultimate."

And a knock
A smile in calm
Then excess
Delivery of rejection
And then struggle.

The bullets race
As do drops of the rain
And paint the asphalt, wet-red.