Flash Flood Warning

It rains like an unclogged drain.
No longer bound by matted hair
and globs of conditioner, it revels
in its trajectory toward the sea.
It rains like tears in free fall, one 
of those ugly cries that contort the
face. It rains like the fiddle in The
Devil Went Down to Georgia, when
Johnny shows the devil how it’s done.
It rains like the shameless shake of a 
Saint Bernard after a bath, like splats
of paint carelessly flung on a blank 
canvas. It rains like a garden hose
in the hands of a toddler, each step
closer awarded with a shot up the
nose. It rains like a pep rally during
a homecoming football game, feet
stomping, drums thumping, staccato 
cheers erupting from the fans. It rains
like God’s wrath during the days of
Noah, and you start counting off the
animals in pairs of two. It rains like
memories.

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