Standing in the Rain Watching the Dog

The dog, a new puppy, whines to go out, insists,

something I can’t complain about, how I’d trained her,

but it’s raining, so donning my cap,

I stand under a large tree, covered,

sheltered, some, from the rain while she

forgets why we came out, amuses herself

with a leaf blown in the wind or a moth fluttering

in the waning light, or a romp through

the puddles forming, while I stand here,

hands in my pockets, shoulders hunched

against the dripping, brooding,

thinking back to days when the rain

didn’t matter, didn’t keep us seeking shelter

but remaining outside, “a passing shower,”

chasing our own moths fluttering,

leaves blown in younger days, or playing

a neighborhood game of hide-and-seek,

kick-the-can, red-rover, red-rover calling us over,

and there were no rain delays

in the big field of our dreams, a diamond

marked by sticks and boards or a patch

worn bare on summer afternoons circling bases,

and we stayed out, we all stayed out, then,

until some adult, such as I’ve become,

hunched against the rain, watching, impatient,

the adult calls us in, and perhaps,

staring after us, happily rain soaked, remembering, too,

and forgetting, calling again, until,

our business done, and damp, we leave

the play behind, swing wide the door and enter

the dry world we could not escape

but on a rainy day, standing in the rain,

watching the dog and remembering.