Cars Become Metronomes in the Rain

 

 

The streets are singing,

or maybe

that‘s just the rain

playing the curb’s black and white

keys. Ghetto tract symphony.

 

Listen, damn it.

            Listen.

 

Wind strumming sheets of water

running into gutters, wet words

rushing up from the ground,

 

or maybe

 

that’s just the homeless man

praying.

 

Red flannel jacket.

Torn hemlines

a feathered bursting.

 

Untucked coners hanging

over dirty leather belt.

His fingernails,

 

his fingernails…

 

A delicate thunder of water

meeting thin sheet metal

hoods, black bars humming

Gregorian chants.

Porch awnings,

car roofs,

salt rusted hoods.

 

Traffic an Italian tenor toning

to the metronoming

of wind battering 

billboards. Bass low

sibilant hiss of dull yellow,

rain meeting streetlight,

joining the counterpoint,

dissonance, castanets

 

or maybe

 

that’s just the cockroaches,

dirty legs skittering over

tin foil dance floor, the

baby is crying.

 

Listen.

 

Crack pipes blow bubbles

like spit on the corner

of lips. The old man

on the porch next door

has eyes

 

like a child.