“Realism is a bad word. In a sense everything is realistic. I see no line between the imaginary and the real.” – Federico Fellini

It was a rainy day.

The weather prophets

called for a storm

and boy

were they ever right.

The pelting assault

of the raindrops

on your umbrella’s nylon

works like a spell

in bringing you back

to a childhood

not yours

but some other remote

and unspecified childhood

that took place

in a faraway land

where it rained a lot.

Nostalgia pierces your heart

and, in a haze,

you step off the curb

and begin plunging downward

into a yawning abyss

as you manage to turn your head

just enough

to see the cliff’s edge

off which you just stepped.

Heart in your mouth,

your umbrella blows inside out

as you plunge

and plunge

and wonder

how many times

the city curbside

will have to turn into a cliff’s edge

off which you fall

before you finally remember

to adjust your perspective

to honor your flights of fancy

and divine the fool

you were always meant to be

come rain

or come shine.