Distant Sreet
Rain whips down the rugged street
under swaying taps,
blowing across my cold face;
the air smells
of foam, charcoal, and tar.
I hear the chatter of leaves
against a clapping window;
the house is half-lit,
but the silver wind lifts the curtain
shining on drained asphalt.
Tables, lines of sullen people;
eyes blurred in the fogging
of cut- glass mirrors.
I lean on a doorway of a kitchen
with chipped jars and faded pictures.
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