The hard voices from soft people.
The soft rumble from hard vehicles.
Watered down by the rain.

Ruffled leaves, the dead remnant out of the horizontal, sticking.
The wind bends the barren tall trees out of vertical, time is ticking.
By.

Curled like a baby safe from harm,
He carry's his shoes up in his arms,

yet his short cropped hair and uncovered head
are soaked by the rain and he stops to give a shake,

after he points his finger and speaks to the apparition,
as drugs drift through his blood, and find his nerve
endings.

But his soaking socks wet from the sidewalk awash slap
in the the rain, are what attract the eye from across
the boulevard, one hund-
red one feet or more

away

it is plain,
he is having a bad day, which seems normal for him, for even the
telephone pole talks back, some insane day beginning.

To another long night.