Rain Poem by Doug Lane

It's raining again
in Los Angeles
after such a long absence
we natives
can scarcely
recognize
what it is
we're dealing with.
I went to the range
to beat balls
and the horizontal rain
said "No,
that won't be happening
today."
I left my unhit balls
in their bucket,
paid for and forlorn,
sparkling wet,
ran dumb errands,
and ended up
at the near deserted
Barnes & Noble
reading Billy Collins
on poets at their windows,
working by watching
like I'm watching now,
and listening to the glistening
downpour,
thinking of the poets,
Kunitz and Stafford and Jordan,
and novelists,
Doctorow and Heller and McKay,
who kindly helped me
over the years
and are now dead,
up in the sky
working by watching
at their panoramic windows,
wondering what the hell
Lane
is doing with his time
besides watching,
and waiting,
at his window.