No — not yet. September. September, 2016.
Friday, then Friday night, then Friday night rain.
I'm a turtle, inside my shell, sleeping while the rain beats at it. Let it beat. I'm down for the night, shelled in a car.
Then I'm up, and it's Saturday. Another day, another day at the library.
So that's Saturday, then there is Saturday night, and then Saturday night rain.
How familiar by now, and back to Turtle Island, my car, floating, dreaming in the rain. Turn the good ear up and it's pain. Turn the deaf ear up and it's an endless long hum.
A hum caught in the sky's throat. The sky takes long nighttime showers, takes the full night, goes all in. I dream of Frenly Denwa, of Fulsom Honeydew, of Mindy Fresh. Know them? I don't think so either. They only passed by once, full in their beam of portable sunshine, while I loitered in the darkness.
Then Sunday comes. Hope. Should be better, no?
Better then? No.
Off to the park for my own washup, needed. How bad can this state park shower be by now?
Shitbucket.
The hygienic equal to diarrhea soup, served cold. Like a deep bowl of cold diarrhea soup to stand in.
One test token turns the shower on but twirling the knobs only bounces it from off to full glacier. By mistake I tune it to variably tolerable. Someone failed here, so why not, and leverage their oversight, enduring the warm to hot to warm to chilly cycles and bathe anyway. Ha! Beat you! Sorta.
...Dave's qwikwash interlude...
Then back to my car in a solo umbrella parade. Sunday. What a fine day for laundry. So I do that.
But the weather itself fails later, and dies, and weak sun burns in. Yeah. Always later, isn't it? But sun.
Monday then, today, and how is it? Partly to mostly sunny. For now.
And tonight? And tomorrow? How about? Oh.
Rain.