Ritual Nighttime Ritual lights out. Cigarette glow and one barn light in all the black.
Thoughts drop from a narrowed funnel of perception.
Perhaps the rain would be made of thoughts. Butt out cigarette, gently close window and sneak into bed. Falling asleep to the music inside. I like the story of this poem, sneaking one last puff, and I mostly like the way it's told, clear and specific images. But that narrowed funnel of perception is too much.