The Rain

There used to be a wall
with a hook that anchored
my belongings. Some wet memories
have pickled over the years.
It's raining and my feet are
running to the backyard to
save grandmother's pickle jars.
My wounds are wet with prickly rain drops.
I am crying for the concrete floor
With her steaming pressure cooker.
I have lost that floor
and steam. My coat is wet
and heavy. Where can I hang it?
I am feeling her kitchen,
hearing the simmering, but failing to grab anything.
In my stormy cries, however,
I am being washed spotless and white.
All the fuss is being flushed
out. I am seeing through others
and finding conflicts funny.
I know grandmother is
gone and her wall got powdered away.
But I will find
some hook to hang my wet
belongings. At least I have the rain.