January Rain
Yeah,
I’m a poet.
But you won’t see me write
about listening to Vivaldi in a Brooklyn barber shop.
I don’t drink coffee
and I don’t even know if the lilacs bloom in June.
When I see a beautiful woman
I don’t notice the color of her eyes, or the shape of her figure.
I see beauty.
The Devil’s in the details
so I generally don’t bother with them.
Oh,
I notice some details.
I know its January 31
and raining.
I notice one individual rain drop on my windshield—
illuminated by the gas station lights —
it pools briefly, then runs quickly
in a stream
to oblivion.
Yesterday,
it rained too,
and I noticed the slurping sound
as the heel of my new shoe
lifted from the mud.
And I noticed the weight
of the oak box
in which we carried grandma
from the hearse
to the hole.
