all the little men run for their little umbrellas
they don't slosh, they stealth around
puddles are lava
branches are loaded sprinklers
cars and houses are the only good places
I like this lava. I slosh. warm filling-socks feeling
happier than them feeling
slow, glum acceptance
so much better than hectic tiptoeing
I am separated from all the little dry men
and I slosh in my melancholy gray feeling places
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