There is no shelter from this rain
droplets so small
that they do not fall, but
float
in every direction,
accumulating
not just on the shoulders
of my rumpled duster
and brim of my felt hat,
but on my brow,
shirt, pant cuffs,
nostrils,
soaking me outside
and in
gaze fixed on the tip of my finger
tracing your name
which should not be among these countless others
etched in polished black stone
extending too far in either direction.
I should not be here
among so many other damp travelers
treading mist
wondering what to call
what you did.
Peter Englot grew up in Queens, New York, earned degrees in linguistics, and has spent many years trying to help universities be better. He lives with his wife, Anne, in Manhattan, where he walks to work at Hunter College. His poetry has appeared in Blueline and Newtown Literary.