that night the jury rolled back in,
our courtroom was dull, like a tin
can after rains. faces were condensed.
words bolted through, and flashed–
then the rumble all around.
still, no shelter. storms keep coming.
they’re always coming, never going.
did you feel a drop? did you feel it
sprinkle? i wondered quietly:
are rainbows ever tired, and do they
stretch out down here, in the gray?