I sit here in a rut
Snug and dry as a bone
Or a blueberry scone
Just as edible too, but
It’s storming, and I’m quite all alone.

There’s something in the beat
Of gray afternoon rain,
That pulsation on the pane:
It hammers out wet heat
Deep in the gloom of my belly and brain.

It rattles my sore nerves,
This tempest between my thighs:
I squall out choking cries
To trace your fluid curves,
Descry the liquid lightning in your eyes.

But: here I’m on my own
Perched in a desert bed
Unloved and quite ill-fed,
And if you’re deaf to my moan
I’ll feed my scone to another instead.