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It’s going to be a long night
this drizzly silver Friday night
with this pen
and this five-by-seven spiral notebook
and my torrents of thoughts
pouring in wet sheets
blanketing my soul
the fine fabric of my clothes
soaked inside out
clinging to my skin
my vision blurred as if
I were peering into
the depth of a lake
and across the rain-slicked highway
standing under the dim yellow light
is a man’s figure
a cane in his hand, a fedora on his head
silent and obscure
I wish he were watching me
but I couldn’t really be sure
I wish he would
come in out of the rain with me
somewhere warm
somewhere dry
where questions could be answered
and give my grief-stricken heart comfort
but maybe he’s busy
maybe he can’t see me in the dark
or hear me in the downpour
maybe he’s waiting
for someone who’s not me
total personal healing, or
a Spanish-speaking lady

so I get into a cab
sticky yellow mucus
and fatal bacteria
spreading inside my lungs
get home
my damp footprints
echoing in the empty living room
I make coffee
I write
it’s going to be a long night.