A fobbly day

Outside in the city street I hear
Car horns blare — much like incoherent
Scraps of verse, heels tapping
Tapping, drum-rolled on a sidewalk,
Muttering retreats into sawdust bars; clash
Of knives and forks, dwellers eating,
Laughter, screams in a new day meeting;
With cat’s claws, a fog walking on
My window sill. A doorbell buzzing, pausing
Wearing thin upon my irregular pulse, a
Voice calling out of breath, panting, panting,
Nervous knocking and then a silence.

Shall I rush out, dressed as I am — enter the
City in my robe and jams? While the air
Rough as splintered wood, a drop of rain then
Pools of wet, squeaking umbrellas up
Against a broken, clouded sky. Rasps the jarring
Blackened tents, drools the puddles into
Sidewalk gutters, smacks its hand on every roof,
Casts its remnants down thirsty drains and
Into the dull canals beneath the asphalt pavement,
Departs the city reluctantly with empty bottles and
Sandwich papers, like loitering heirs of corrupt officials;
The sun now a spinster with faded eyes.

A cold rain dragging its belly across the dullness of the
Day — I, standing beneath my lofty, dry garret,
Wet all the way down to my tired bones, rattled at the
Downpour leering at me, cast off my dignity and
Plunge into the swarming waters, holding onto a branch,
Looking, looking for any parcel of land; I am a tenant
Of the flood. Will it never cease?

Copyright © 11/09/17 lance sheridan®