Word came in, not from the news but our phones,
messages for which we cannot atone.
Our latest failure, a new agony
born from an enemy we fail to see.
It’s strange to me, for long before this pain,
when I thought Providence, I thought of rain—
the kind that eats through three layers of skin,
probing ’til it finds some bone to live in.
But that was all weather-induced, of course—
not from an ill man, exhibiting force.
An uncanny stretch where every visit
brought forth the clouds, but nothing illicit.