The awaited raindrops trickle from above,
like a million droplets of dopamine.
I celebrate with a cup full of hot tea and
a pair of wiggling hands through the bars of quarantine.
The acid rain leaks through my fingers,
and on the concrete, it falls.
The soaked street reminds me of the old man
on the other side of the wall.
He must have searched for,
a roof to mother his damp head
a dry spot for his wet belongings and fragility
a cloth to wipe his destitute skin
a pluviophile’s affinity
The cup in my hand turns cold,
The warmth of my tea collides with the frigid world.