600 litres of rain,
falling down,
through a black wind,
crippling a routine city night,
with rusted railings,
and thinned out metal floors,
shadows light shaky cigarettes,
and spit smoke,
into the misty street light haze,
fatigued glances at hurried coffee shop patrons,
running to dodge the wet bullets from the cold sky,
lines of hollow eyes sit on cheap chairs,
sit, in the quiet rain,
wishing the summer back,
but it's gone,
her name was "Summer,"
but she's gone,
so pull something new,
from your dreams on a cold night,
think of something new,
to write on fresh pages,
play a Neil Young song,
get out a snifter,
some B&B,
and put the kettle on.
4 comments:
outstanding. winter sets in. you've nailed it.
nice - B and B...rain, smoke, coffee, all the good things - cuz rust never sleeps.
Haven't heard from you for awhile. 600 litres of pi$$ and a gallon of love. Like this poem. From summer to fall and the rain that washes it all away. Got to do a bloggers united. Has been too long.
Great poem. Nothing like a hot toddy to dry up the deluge and divinate the afflatic muse from beneath the chthonic subconscious. May she fill your enchanted cup Over and Over Again.
Gotta stay away from girls named after the Seasons.
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