Rain And Memory

In memory, savannahs roll out dry
and empty underneath a dust-stained sky
where lions hide in lion-colored grass
and evenings echo to the jackal’s cry.
But here the rain comes rolling down the glass
and auto wheels hiss wetly as they pass.
I sleep to gurgling music in the gutters
and memory is drowned in now. Alas,
my childhood songs are now reduced to mutters
like wind that comes to mumble at the shutters
like clocks that run, but don't keep proper time.
My tongue, once fluent, stumbles now and stutters.
Forgotten brilliance overwhelmed in rust—
the smell of rain engulfs the smell of dust.