Give Thanks

Where are you, gypsy?
Thunder is eating the tail
of thunder.
This is what it looks like in my brain.
This is what it sounds like in my chest.
Sagging windows are lit up,
partly due to
the hash smoke.
And the delusion that there is
something worth standing in the
rain for.
I spit in the rain,
but I do not spit at the rain,
sir.
I still shake with wet fists, letting
one cold finger after another
trace my temperature.
What is the Spanish word for rain?
I begin to count the ways I could
associate love with a thundershower
metaphor,
or perhaps memories.
But all the gypsies have left
before the monsoon could catch them.