Blue-Sky Thinking

The face in the cloud speaks to me.
“I see you down there, grinding away.
I prefer floating. I prefer drenching.”

O Spring, the imagination runs wild!
A fine line separates fancy and insanity,
like I don’t know. Now it fucking rains.

The face in the cloud, darker now,
chides me for forgetting my umbrella.
But no rain was forecast, cloud.

“Terrible that, but I’m unpredictable.
And I deliver good water to everything.
But you are guilty of blue-sky thinking.”

This cloud speaks a funny language.
I am doing my best to translate it.
But it sounds nothing like the written words.

You won’t live forever, I think.
In time you’ll empty out yourself.
Your face will dissipate, your rains will end.

The cloud drains its bladder at last.
Soaking wet, I feel resentment toward it.
The face in the clouds winks at me.

Just go away, I grunt to myself.
“I can hear you, man,” the cloud says.
“If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

Too much. I moved on. I wasn’t about
to converse with a cloud. I’m not out
of my mind yet. Give it time, but not yet.

I pass a man with a big umbrella.
He has a face like a wildebeest, sparsely bearded.
Not a friendly specimen.

“Don’t talk to that cloud,” I say, pointing.
He stares at me, grunts, and stomps his galosh.
“I mean it,” I say, “that cloud has a serious problem.”