rain

october 11, 2006

 
New York in the rain.
The fallen leaves lie:
the sidewalks are clean
  because there are no worms
  because there is no grass.
On the sidewalks nothing lives.
Dogshit doesn't decay
but sun-dries to a fine powder,
until the rain washes it away.
On the grates lie crumpled piles —
the broken bones of a black umbrella,
or one hardly larger, huddled
in blue jeans and sneakers,
still, in what you hope is sleep.
T-shirts, shoes, toaster ovens lie abandoned
on this sidewalk where nothing lives,
where the rain falls, nurturing in vain.

We huddle in the dark under black umbrellas,
stepping in pointed shoes around the mudless puddles,
avoiding black sneakers, black umbrellas,
the eyes of old women with plastic-covered hair.
Lights shine red — cars, fire trucks, stoplights —
through the fogged bus windows,
illuminating old men, young mothers, hiding from the cold damp,
and I shiver, afraid.
I fear the cold of this city in winter,
snow crushed by cars, unsoftened by trees,
strange city where the only warmth
is the only beauty
is the fierce burning of our own small lives,
candles glowing together in the garish night.
Overdeveloped with cold neon light,
there is not even darkness.