"Self-portrait as Midnight Storm."
Tossing the steel mesh trash cans is so much fun.
Not as much as juggling broken umbrellas
or rocking the yellow taxis or the last of the Lincoln Town
cars ferrying passengers, drenched and stimulated.
The start of a new day and the pitch
is black with stimulation.
SHIRR, SHIRR, SHIRR, SHIRR.
My sheets of rain, SHIRR, SHIRR, SHIRR.
Oh, look at the angry boys drunk and holy
as they try mimic storm.
The really large guy's huge fist hits a bus stop carousel.
It pebbles to the sidewalk, hundreds
of green nuggets, his holy hand unblemished by blood.
Foolish boys.
Foolish boys, your anger is no storm,
and your howling bears little glamor.
The wolves in your throats have long since left you.
And here in the rain, your pain is small, durable,
and yet, the pebbles scatter about reminder
of uglier private deeds.
As for my winds, my rain, my tossing back the moon soft
gleam means little to windows stood still storm
after storm, centurions of design.
They raised my ire and lash, lash, lash,
I throw against glass, the sash a square reflection
of domestic armature.
As for the painted wood doors, they are so easily broken.