Poetry

At night the rain falls:
Now the streets will reflect the
Lights from the shops.

Waiting hotel room:
Wine carpet, egg-shell blinds and
A newly-made bed.

She lets her hair down:
The moon from behind the clouds
Shows its face again.

Smoke from cigarettes
Drifting, drifting through the room—
“Does it bother you?”

Out on the sidewalk:
Stillness, quiet, nobody
Around. It is night.

The sound of a sax
Wraps itself around the pole
Of a lone street-lamp.

Sounds of slowing down:
Black auto, even blacker
The shadows it casts.

A gun—wine carpet—
The rain beats on the window
As the sax winds down.

The stars shine above:
He sits on the window-ledge—
How the rain does fall.

A flood is let loose:
The roads offer no passage—
The smoke still floats there.