Searching for a scheme to rhyme the night
and find a step to follow each step
becoming the first to strike the face of
star and cloud stippled puddles and its all
so awkward
like white wainscot knee high
along the outside of the repurposed bank
housing a wheelchair rental depot
that's been closed for as long as
the brick work poking through unmended asphalt
where the lights flash out of sequence
can remember.
Squirrels are jumping, still, from power line to power line
feeding dead eyed low rises
and the walk is done
damn near religiously, but God
seems concerned only with bringing
more rain to wash away the little heaps
of black ink bled pennysaver pages
clinging wads of toilet paper in
a public bathroom.
It strikes in the drum bitten taps
of scattered water beneath shoe flats
that what captures the best of emotion
is often the least concerned with
times expected delivery of a word like another
and concern slivers and wears thin and gone
beneath the importance of the search
for her own sake and
in those wind blown, but not beaten minutes
alone on streets left behind there can be felt
loss and found sounds to describe
what is licking at a heart
and it is all coming together
and all so very
very awkward.
