The skyward myths, the poppy-field poets, have vanished, the inexpressible has evanesced above the tar pits like the long-lost Brachiosauridae, and in the cities, all that’s left is Amazon and online dreams.
Beyond the glass, the water birds are gliding on the rails of rain, and, for a moment, their distant pattering melody recalls a semblance of another chance at hopefulness—even with the knowing that it’s far too late for all of that.
The rain was running late, still pattering
on the muddy puddles of the city sky,
and the street was smeared with cloud
star-ridden with mercury lamps—
a world as dreary as long-lost
infatuation, as a friend’s anger,
as empty jealousy.
Like a moth attracted
to the flickers of fluorescent lights,
I chose a frayed café where
my dairy-whitened instant coffee
with artificial sweetener
—all its chemical delights—
put me in the writing mood.