There’s no chance to miss the rain.
It’s a sheet that falters every fifth day and transforms into hard pellets that feel like a bruise
you can’t return.
The region has more rain water than the means
by which to clean it,
said the
anchors
five weeks ago
when they pretended to joke
with the meteorologist,
a dapper man
whose suits used to predict whether
our sports teams would win or lose.

A day back, maybe outside one of the
last gas stations that hadn’t been looted,
a fellow kept me entertained by
telling me how, in the army, he turned urine
into potable water.

I wish I had learned the skills the world needs now.
Like how to make one’s pee a refreshing glass of clean water.
Or, how to rebuild a generator.
Every new day is waking up to the worst internship ever.
And the credit is being deemed worth a place at the shelter –
what used to be a Pier One Imports –
when someone in the group has found something not contaminated
for the night’s dinner protein.

We all sit on our floor pillows
and, when anyone’s in the mood,
crack jokes at the guy who got a major in Marketing
to write content for the weed-killing industry.