Rainstorm • Mike Beyer

It was us
now me

slamming the door on an
old red car shut

on a black and
deep empty road.

White rain sheets
pound incessantly

swelling brown puddles
along the roadside.

I’ve placed
my things in a bag

and locked
them in the trunk.

I turn and face
the thrashing

trees and the

and leave it
all behind.

neon lights