Rain and asphalt embrace
like a slap across the face,
repeatedly –
it can be heard for miles, I
should guess;
the glass cries,
wipes its eyes,
and cries again,
the rivulets of water trickling
like ants across the soil,
with no apparent place to go,
just down, diagonally.
The red streaks
and a massive game of Tetris –
the gaps that open and fill
(if you know where you fit, then
get there
faster) –
blur into an impressionist
painting:
“Starry Night, plus Traffic.”
Arms wave, back and forth,
as if the highway were a summer
concert –
they wipe the glass,
returning resolution
to what was once
beautiful.
