No. Not me. I listen
to sidewalk and kitchen talk,
any sound of my own
veiled in the meter of a slow rain.
There are times I wish
I was thunder, or more: lightning
tearing a tree down and startling everyone
within view of it, leaving a hole behind,
or splinters; at the very least, my own story.
Instead, I’m the hiss of
a presence sensed, soaking through,
making the ground soft.
Everyone who walks by
can see where they’ve been
because I’ve been there.