The Rain And The Posterer
The rain spattered on the pavement
an even randomness of drops like lacework
upon the slabs of man-made stone.
The man rose, grasping his umbrella
like a riding whip about to do battle
with the elements, though he would lose.
It was drizzling and everything glistened:
the sidewalk, the cobblestones, the grass
poking between the cracks in eternal war:
Life seeking the upper-hand in a world
which was being paved by the hand of man
though in the end it would indeed triumph.
He grumbled about his livelihood:
the putting up of posters that would soon be
shredded, burnt or papered over for events
which might get a few random people to attend,
but might not: the music scene had changed,
the world wasn’t so affordable anymore.
Purple Mark's Prompts:
- "The man rose, grasping his umbrella like a riding whip," Graham Greene. May We Borrow Your Husband: Two Gentle People. (Viking Adult; Limited First edition, 1967).
- "It was drizzling. Everything glistened: the sidewalk, the cobblestones, the grass poking between the cracks." Mercè Rodoreda. Rain.