Where the waters come from

It’s the rain
Says the Cloud
That makes you weep, whine and whimper
Shudder, shiver and shake,
Dear Madame, dear Sir.

No, it’s the cloud’s fault
Says the Rain
Sobbing in storming anger over the soaked umbrellas,
The sneezing snotty handkerchiefs
Of astounded passers-by squeezed together under a small patch of nylon dark sky –
Who wade
And curse and talk about the weather
And wish all hands clasped around the frail common prop
For a cup of coffee –
Dripping like tears along the countless rims
Down to the ground –
A place that normally suits both the cloud and the water
Anyways.

How stupid, then, to argue about whose fault it is
If humans wet their pants or the bottoms thereof
And end up all together
Around their central heels
In a mudflat –
Or a mere puddle!

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