Waterlogged

Waterlogged.
The soccer game ended early
and now, he stood on the curb,
with the rain coming down,
and the only word
he could think of was
waterlogged.

Soaked,
through and through,
comes from the lumberjack
tradition of sending
logs down the river.
They'd soak up the water,
making them useless
until they dried out.
They'd weigh too much.
They wouldn't burn.
They'd have to sit out in the sun,
and sometimes they'd mold over,
making them brittle and hollow.
Waterlogged.

The streets glistened with the newly applied surface,
the tires of cars-by squealing in lack of control.
But with each new car that passed him by,
he continued to be soaked through and through.

He'd catch his death of cold.
Wouldn't that serve him right?

At least they won the soccer game.
He laid down on the sidewalk
and let the rain pelt him and squeak
through him
and touch him and know him intimately.
He could almost feel him being sent down river.

Soon he would mold.
Soon he would be hollow
and the house that would be built from him
would shake and shatter.

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