Under A Box Of Rain


Outside Señor Burrito's bus stop,
a man on the side of the street
grinds away the last of his baby teeth

His jaw teeter­totters back and forth—
to the right, then to the left
see­saw under the Sunday sun

The metal sidewalk bench,
some straight jacket church pew
for a brain with an over hunched dream

This nervous tick addles his back,
tickles the vertebrae
like the pulse of new shingles stapled
into the spine of a roof

All the wooden floors of coffee shops squeak with light footed soles.

On the day of Rest,
we must hurry sidewalk swift
for we are just a bewildered race:

wildebeests waiting on the river bank
waiting for the walls to cave and slide
waiting for the muddy bottom to open its mouth and bite at our thin

waiting for the bus to come pick us up
while we rest our restless heads
under a box of rain.



This text originally appeared in Marielle Grenade-Willis's Prairie Crocus (The Lune, 2016)

Marielle Grenade-Willis is a poet, volunteer, vocalist, and gardener from Virginia. Now living in Colorado, she listens to the ground and watches the sky for inspiration. Her poetry and other musings have been featured in The LuneThe James Dickey ReviewSouthern Sierran Magazine, and on Public Radio International's “The World." One of her latest poems is forthcoming within the next year in the Colorado Review and she is currently engrossed in a forty day photo-journaling project.