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coffeeshoppoems
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to each of us on this walk home
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i can do nothing for the rain
collecting in the tinny avenue, in the depression
of asphault outside the door to the bar
the locals call Heaven.
a few cigarette butts are drowned in it
just floating there, pale, discarded
no doubt tossed by people discussing the scene
and the dj's chill sound
i can do nothing about the multitude
wearing leather pants. buying charms for this
new age,
extra strength tylenol, viagra,
reality tv.
the rain is cool on my face
it's sound is upon everything except the
quiet found in doorways, in a cat crossing the street
perching beside a midnight pool
to drink deeply, its fast, cool gulps.
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