It's going to rain all day, I'm told.
That's fine.  I haven't a lot to do.
The workmen won't come with
Their tractors and dump trucks,
Their pallets of wall blocks,
Their racket, next door.  I'll be
Home by myself, feeling almost
Transported to where I grew up,
To that place in which skies never
Cleared, and I'd sit, it seemed, every
Day, as I'm doing, just watching
It rain.