It was raining indoors when I woke today
to the heavy drops spattering my pillow.
While I drank my first coffee at eleven
a rainbow hung between the stove and fridge
and the dark clouds retreated to the corners.
The voice began to speak about midday,
saying this was another phase of life,
that everyone is a work of art
but originality is another matter,
not to break the law until it breaks you first
and that I shouldn’t expect to understand
until I receive the call. The objects around me
contain a fraction of the answer, I’m sure,
but they stay silent as the rain returns.
Published in Contemporary Surrealist and Magical Realist Poetry anthology
S.C. Flynn 