In a candlelit bar
out of the gloom
The piano
Tinkles
A Jazz noir tune.
I sit and watch
A woman
Fashionably attired
Wait while
A doorman
Summons a car
She departs
Into splashing streets
Rain dancing
To the wipers' beat
And I, dry behind
The jewelled pane,
Watch
As she slowly
Drives away.
In my mind
I follow
Through wet streets
To her condo
She exits
Beneath a portico
And an elevator
Whisks her
To her tower...
Sheltered
As a hothouse flower.
What does she know
Of rain or pain
Or dull grey days—
Other than her view
Of the lake?
The fire bubbles
In the grate
As she pours
A Manhattan,
Scrying the riddle
Of rain trail patterns
What, if anything,
Goes
Through her brain?
Barriers dissolve
And I’m given
A glimpse...
A vision
Into privileged
Position
And I stare
Amazed
At a string
Of dull grey days…
And despair so great
It drives her away
Back out into the rain
Where she enters
An unending haze,
And slips beneath
Dull, grey waves.
