Dashing through

The water drops

Running fast before they land

Ruthlessly upon my clothes, hair, and face

Trying to make it out alive

Without a bit of scars

Or the wounds of where it lands

Like fighting jets and bombers

These little drops are missiles in disguised

If and when they start to fall

I panic enough to almost die

Enough to know that – coverage is essential – a bunker

home – leaving is second to everything

My clothes, skin, hair does not tolerate these missiles coming from the sky.

[Ruptes, 02/2020]