Everything is dust. The sky is a giant ball of the kind that collects under your bed after you don’t vacuum for 3 weekss and so the butterflies can fly.
It doesn't rain until 6.
If it’s going to be this cloudy and 60 degrees in July then just make it downpour at least so that the lightning can strike every tree behind my house to create a firestorm and so I can run outside and catch 10,000 colds by rolling in every puddle in the street. I can feel the pebbles grazing my elbows, like thunder does the sky. The rain kisses my scars; a mother with smooth mint chap stick lips.
The drops ricochet like micro bullets off of the ground, but only get so far before falling again. Back onto school bus yellow rain boots now muddied. There are no thin patches in the sky, only one shade of gray tossed over like a tablecloth.
Then the smog rolls in, and everything smells like Aunt Theo's cigarettes and mildew, and the way water tastes; nourishing and refreshing. Like the precipitation that forms on the outside of your glass of lemonade with the odor of car grease and the clink and crack of opened beers.
Please, rain, don't hurt the clouds of monarchs who'll fly soon. I don't want to pick them off of the ground like daisies and feel sick when my uncle frames them in his office; they're supposed to return to the sun.