Rain Comes
In the
rains, night streets glisten
like a
thousand tear-glazed eyes slick
with
pain.
A
drought tempered,
not
quenched.
A
dark-haired man sprawls propped
against
a lamp post, yellow light misting
over
him in the dark;
his
khaki pants damp from wicking the wet sidewalk;
his
button-down brown shirt damp from his tears;
his
head angled askew as he stares
into
electronic memories
of
her.
His
face is illuminated a ghoulish blue;
his
thumb flicking back and forth
back and
forth
winding
a watch that bears no hands,
yet
holds an eternity
of
them.
Cars
wash by driving
through
his anguish.
A
jukebox in the dive bar across the street plays
a ballad
he will never hear.
Rain
and tears blend and flow down
the
gutters of his face
erode
him
until the
flotsam of his soul
with
oil and mud and life
drain
into sewers toward the sea.
