It not only rained, it poured that night as I exited the tavern... I met you by the train station, your clothes sodden; dress sticking to your long legs. Hurriedly I drew you under my umbrella and we walked, hand in hand through Central Park. The multi-colored lights shone on the street; Christmastime always has such a wonderful glow. Smiling, we peer through windows, seeing children sitting by fires playing with their new toys, and old women knitting scarves. An old drifter hunkers down to fend off the rain...
It not only rained, it poured that night as I exited the car dealer...
...with papers in hand, so many decisions. What to buy, how to finance it. Briskly walking to my employment across the street, I watch as children jump in puddles, young men wink at the ladies that pass. A drifter hunkers down to fend off the rain...
It not only rained, it poured that night as I ran from the police...
...doing eighty in a thirty-five zone. You throw the bag of coke out the window, exploding it into a cloud of white. Our silence is adrenaline-induced; we are tense, focused, hovering over the windshield like vultures. The children walk up to the crosswalk as we speed by, barely missing one. A drifter hunkers down to fend off the rain...
It not only rained, it poured the night I witnessed my funeral...
...all of my friends were there, standing in silence, meditating, looking for answers to the Removal. I stand and then I sit listening intently to the priest as he addresses the crowd: “An old drifter hunkers down to fend off the rain. His only protection is a cardboard refrigerator box, yet he is rich. His friends make him wealthy. You, and you over there, all of you, love the man on the street.”