NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: Day 2

Petrichor (the first rain after a dry spell)

I.
Metal arms, spindly
malnourished bench-presses 
carry the parachute above
our heads. The wind 
swallowed everything 
but water. I am a fish.
You are drowning. 
Fatal. 


II.
Dropping pennies 
face up on sweaty
cobblestone barely missing
puddles as we jump across
congested streets. Today was
a good day, when we ignored
the storm and got to play
dress up, instead. 

We are made of water.
Replenished by the rain.