Rain in His Bones

It rained as hard as algebra, harder than vectors and infinite-regresses. It rained like there’d be no tomorrow, no yesterday or yesteryear. The shamble leg man could feel the rain in his bones, a cold feral rain scattering the leaves from the trees, people’s hats from they’re heads, the sky opening its great maw and bawling rain, sheets and nails of rain. When he was a boy the shamble leg man rode his bicycle in the rain, splashguards spitting water, the asphalt beneath his peddling feet slick with it. He would drag his foot against the curb collecting the wet leaves that had been pulled screaming from twisted branches. He rode with his face to the rain, the bicycle’s tires scavenging the wet pavement for a plum-line. He trebled the gears with the back of his thumb, the wires cogging, the gears finding the perfect pitch and momentum. Some older boys stole the shamble leg man’s bicycle, breaking it into unusable pieces. They stripped off what they wanted and hammered the rest into tiny metal bits. His father swore he’d kill whoever stole his son’s bicycle. But the shamble leg man knew his father was lying, and hadn’t the courage or balance to kill anything.