The bedroom windows are drowning
and no one else is in our bed
facing the limp strand of hanging Christmas lights
retrieved from some box
long forgotten in a closet compartment
inside my mother’s rental unit.
It’s getting darker, and the lights
grow lurid against lurching shadows
in corners of the room.
Outside, a washed-out streetlamp
hums persistently in the company
of water sheets.
It’s comforting, really, up
to know rise
these ephemeral streams still
from time to time.