The Rain Salesman


(a poem by John Engman from Temporary Help)

I wanted to be a rain salesman,

because rain makes the flowers grow,

but because of certain diversions and exhaustions,

certain limitations and refusals and runnings low,

because of chills and pressures, shaky prisms, big blows,

and apes climbing down from banana trees, and dinosaurs

weeping openly by glacial shores, and sunlight warming

the backsides of Adam and Eve in Eden…

I am paid

to make the screen of my computer glow, radioactive

leakage bearing the song of the smart money muse:

this little bleep went to market, this little clunk has none.

The woman who works the cubicle beside me has pretty knees

and smells of wild blossoms, but I am paid to work

my fingers up and down the keys, an almost sexy rhythm,

king of the chimpanzees picking fleas from his beloved.

I wanted to be a rain salesman, but that’s a memory

I keep returning to my childhood for minor repairs:

the green sky cracking, then rain, and after,

those flowers growing faster than I can name them,

those flowers that fix me and make me stare.

I wanted to be a rain salesman,

carrying my satchel full of rain from door to door,

selling thunder, selling the way the air feels after a downpour,

but there were no openings in the rain department,

and so they left me dying behind this desk — adding bleeps,

subtracting clunks — and I would give a bowl of wild blossoms,

some rain, and two shakes of my fist at the sky to be living.

Above my desk, lounging in a bed of brushstroke flowers,

a woman beckons from my cheap Modigliani print, and I know

by the way she gazes that she sees something beautiful

in me. She has green eyes. I am paid to ignore her.

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