She was a collaborator. She conspired with a corrupt regime,
one that lived in the mind of one man. Never got caught,
punishment arrived regardless.
She was his slush fund. That man wanted her
to pour herself like bad rain, he surrounded her like mist,
and as her words collected in beautiful dark pools inside his thoughts,
puddles formed in which he liked to splash naked from time to time.
When they lay undisturbed for long periods,
(he was a busy man you see and let himself in and out
as he pleased), the pools grew things, mysteries festered,
uncultured culture, breeding ground
for what would have been better for everyone if they did not live.
Like petrified fungus, the bad rain calcified her inactive bones.
Lets look forward, she thought after a while.
Her eye looked up, open under the water but seeing little above.
I look for the day the puddles dry and the slush fund is all spent,
she said to the rain. You watch out.
I'm not dancing my rain dance in this desert again.
It was springtime, and she got busy.
She told only those who cared to listen and sympathize.
She held the hands of her few listeners, and whispering
under their fancy umbrellas, together they jumped,
boots off, into every pot hole they could find.
