Rain on Oak

Rain on oak leaves — not cleansing, just persistent, like a relative who stays too long and means well.

The streetcar passes with its iron complaint. You could ride it out to somewhere dryer, but your body votes stay.

Sadness in New Orleans is not a hole. It is a humidity you wear inside your chest until the horn section finds the key you forgot you knew.

Grief here has a second-line cousin: it walks beside you, refuses to look solemn, throws a flower anyway.

I won’t hand you triumph at the end of the block. The band turns the corner. You can follow the drums or stand in the rain and listen until your shirt forgets the difference.

The band turns the corner; the rain does not.

JV · Dark Heart Labs