In Streetlight, His Wet Hair

On the sidewalk standing in the rain the old man is a wounded dove. Longish white hair: wet feathers grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy and repeats itself, like buckets of water thrown out of windows. The old man stands there holding a memory or a wish. Under the streetlight his wet hair glistens like tinfoil. The downpour is a creature that’s eating him up. Darkness projects from a deserted apartment building. The ground floor windows and doors are boarded, nailed shut. It appears dead, like an old disease, or stripped, like a despoiled tomb. Its bricks cracked and crumbled, wooden casings dry rotted and helpless. Painted in bold red across the boarded front entrance, a graffiti-message: Girls Rule. Looking back at the old man, he stands the way a king stands alone when doubting himself. Dark crawls around him. The old man stares at the building. He is motionless, in memory. Rain gallops over him. Inside the warmth of a café, my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets are laundered clean of everyone except for the old man who stares at the apartment building. Time has grown over his face and body, has grown over the broken down building. Now the rain is as heavy as mucus and with his tiny body the old man shuffles away into the dark and gradually disappears like a casket being covered with earth. _________________________________ from my sixth book-length manuscript ©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015 all rights reserved "In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in 'Switch (the difference) Anthology' from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'