rainy day writing

Apartment building on 347 Favoux Street

The clerk working in the bank

Itching his legs under the desk and getting up to go the bathroom

For the third time this hour.

He walks home after work.

It has been raining and water pools on the footpath

And drips from the shop awnings.


At home, he stands in his kitchen and heats up

A packet of noodles.

Outside it begins to rain again and his little window mists over.

The water boils in the saucepan slowly,

Like a bath.


He has talked his neighbour into going out with him.

She is a small woman, with a friendly smile.

He meets her at her front door,

She is wearing a blue dress with blue buttons

He is wearing a brown polo shirt.

He takes her to the movies.

Afterwards, they walk along the pier

And eat spiralised potatoes.


She tells him about her last boyfriend,

And how he drank too much

He listens with a pretend interest,

Hiding his annoyance.

Back in her apartment

She puts a movie on Netflix

And they sit down to watch for a while,

Until yawning, she asks him to come into the bedroom

And they have sex.

He leaves at two am

Feeling the dampness that the night brings

And the dampness that this kind of love brings

And he sleeps a deep sleep

That only the numb can sleep.

In the morning he wakes late and has to rush to work.

She wakes late, and not having to start work until the afternoon

She takes a bath.

She makes it as hot as she can

And watches the clouds through the skylight

And wonders what the day will bring.

Calmly she thinks about last night;

As if youth lasted forever.

My room above the railway


Moving from room to room

Falling in love with a poster on the wall.

The window is dirty on the outside

But it won’t open

And I can’t clean it.

I see a pigeon sitting on the sill

I watch it clean its wings.

They have tiny mites that bite them all day long

And I wonder how they can stand it.

The cockroaches come out at night.

I found two of them in my cutlery drawn

They were sitting on my forks.

The newspaper that lines the drawers

Is dated from the 80s

The cockroaches don’t make me as angry as I thought they would.

The yellow lights of the railway lines makes me sleepy

The white lights of the city excite me and keep me awake.

Listen to Beethoven and the sound of the traffic.

A baby cries next door

 I didn’t even know my neighbor had a girlfriend

Someone else must have moved in.

I haven’t cleaned this place in weeks

I have no money after paying the rent

They are inspecting this room tomorrow.

What I saw yesterday afternoon and how it haunted me

The yellow lights fell on the railway track

making the area look dirty and more neglected.

an old man made his way up the steps to the pedestrian bridge-

the one that covers the freeway.

He made his way half across

then stood, leaning against the wire fence

and looked down at the traffic.

I passed him on my way to town

and I passed him on my way back an hour later.

He had not moved.

If I grow old, I thought

I too will stand on that old bridge

and watch the traffic for an hour before heading back

to whatever lonely spot I call home.

The benefits of a rainy day.

Writing is a wonderful activity. It exercises the mind, it relaxes, it excites, it makes you a better person. My favorite type of day to write is a rainy day. I love to have the window open so I can hear the wind and the rain drops, I love to hear the fall of rain across the rooftops, and hear the distant trees wave their heavy wet branches. I sit in my room, turn on the lights and type away.

It has always been this way. I was told as a child it was a European throwback, the love of cloudy wet days. I don’t know about that, I have never been to Europe.

The rainy day is a perfect excuse to stay home, comfortable and warm inside.

I watch people rush around in the street kicking puddles, pulling collars around their faces and the fearful damp patches that form across coats. I have memories of rainy days. One day as I was walking home from school I was walking past the bus stop where the school buses were picking up kids. I came to a series of puddles and I leaped them. A child from the window of one of the buses called out to me something rude, saying I was ‘chicken’ for not going through the puddle. This has stuck in my mind for so long. Personally I consider it sensible to avoid puddles but he must not. I wonder where he is now? Maybe he drowned in the flood of 2011.

It is funny how I used to listen to the put downs of others. I was told once when I was about 10 years old that a baseball cap I was wearing was stupid. I did not wear that cap again. i took it home and hid it. I found it the other day and it was in perfect near new condition and I was filled with joy. I took it and put it straight back on my head. I had formulated a new habit and that is if any one says anything bad about something I do I examine it, if I find they are right I adjust my behavior. This is usually constructive criticism, but if I find they are just being mean I do that thing harder than I ever did before.

For example at a recent high school reunion a man came up to me, (he was drunk) I was dressed neatly in a pair of grey trousers and a black wool coat. He was dressed in a pair of dirty mechanics jeans and a torn shirt. He looked at me and said;

“What are you all dressed up for, it looks like think you’re taking over the world.” He continued with a few more unkind things. After this I decided that when events came up I would dress as nicely as I could, I shall wear the best suits I own and take care of my appearance. I would not be shamed into dressing like a slob because of him. Years ago when I was younger it would have damaged my self esteem terribly, but now I become more determined.

It is raining now as I type and I am looking out the window. The sounds of the water, the soft cool breeze, the wind, the rhythmic dripping, I am relaxed. I had to go outside a minute ago and there is water in my hair, my shoulders are wet and heavy, there is water in my ears. But it is joy, it is joy.