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by Bridget Becker

All day the birds complain;
too much rain, too much rain.
I kneel in damp resentment,
with buckets, pans and trays.
I capture each persistent drop
descending from my ceiling,
to perform upon my stage.
Storm clouds seated in the balcony,
await the fluid symphony.
Accompanied by rumbling thunder,
dribble, trickle, rush.
Another pan pushed under -
ripple, splash and gush.
Staccato pitter-patter,
God, it’s leaking like a sieve.
I search the Sunday paper
for another place to live.