Two Poems about the Work

We've heard it drum before — how many times?

That rain which pelts from shingled roof onto

Now-resting window air conditioner's shell.

It booms without a hint of help or harm

To aging motor set within its walls.

That's how it's been in here, perhaps you'd say,

My own cold words like rain or melted snow

Just drop neurotic tears on the tough shell

Of your hallucinated world.