He is angry at the mute intentionless rain
he feels thwarted by a summer of injuries and bad weather
the summer was short and joyless
like a sail with no wind, slack
it was a horrible drowning in time
helpless in a small white room
listening to their shouts and laughter
as they run and ride bicycles
a few feet from his ruined body
rain and chronic injuries and time's unrelenting thrum
the tantalizing sounds of others' joy
wrapped in a cocoon so tight
only bands of slate blue light
seeping through as a preternatural twilight
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