erbacce-press

After the Rain

Upstairs,
the aroma pervades your bathroom.
It’s in the froth around the plug hole.
In the fibres of the towel,
the lather of soap
and the skin on my hands.
Finding the bottle
I discover its name:
After the Rain.

Downstairs,
I see a thumbed copy
of The Art of Happiness
on your bookshelf.
Hear words like half and full
persistent as moles
surfacing from your mouth
and find myself raising a glass
to your sunshine
like a dry day in a wet town.

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