makes raindrops dance in puddles
when they touch.
The heavy sun-bleached awning
of the old antique shop
cascades mist
as an urban waterfall.
Finding its way down,
d
o
w
n ,
into the dark of sidestreet drains
and dampening the box-homes
of the homeless.
Alleycat sings its song
up to an apartment brick wall
in the darker side of town-
drained out by a window unit,
made to cool one
lonesome inhabitant.
Sleeping alone
on a mattress on the floor.
Debating with one's self
never
produces a winner.
As a light flickers
strobe morse code
inside a vacant phonebooth,
a man walks-
with no umbrella-
whistling in freeverse a sad tune.
Starling bright,
singing under a curtain
of fog and street lights.
A single car
drives to a curb corner
and stops.
Inside a man sighs
and wonders what went wrong.
All the songbirds lonesome
collectively agree
"The city isn't the place for me."
And headlights reflect
off wet decrepit streets
under those leaving all of it behind.
Down the highway,
to a place with trees:
"That city was never the place for me."
