DECEMBER

It’s the time for stray dogs,
Rancid excuses,
Ribald stupor,
Meaningless lunchtime banter –
All ruses, leading
Away from the slain
Raisons d’être
In that slithering veil of water
Called rain.

It’s the time for the sloshing of red
From random taillights
Slapping these pavements, wet
With drizzling doubt.
You’re watching.
Watching the sign: “Sold Out
Of Wishing Stars.”
Transient light beams scratching
Dreamlike scars
Into city streets:
Serendipity strumming refrains
Of rain.

It’s the time when only the winds
Have mercy
On those they deem worthy
Of epiphanous blindfolds.
In the watery sheen
Of the grey-on-grey world
Beneath your feet
Briefly you glean
An inverted tree’s swaying
As the metaphor
For existence.
Then a breeze ripples away
All trace of your vision.
Only the clouds
Remain intact
By forever changing.
As one more year wanes
It rains.