my foolish heart (4/27/09)

when it finally came time to leave
I was still clinging
clinging to a ghost that shivered
like a leaf in the wind.
it was a familiar feeling.
I snapped towards the sedan
that long black chariot
and felt the cold silver
on my shoulders.
from the warm leather
of the driver’s seat
I watched as the rain drove
spiny needles through the air
smashing in puddles on
the asphalt.
my phone rang a number
that didn’t exist.
deep within my heart sank.
I did not want it to be this way
the day by day drag
of anomie and ennui
though I still knew that
all glory fades.
the machine hummed and purred
as slick tires met slick blacktop
jet-black and shining
in the dull grey
of the waning daylight
and in my back mirror
I caught the glimpse of the car
I wished would follow
underneath the weeping willows
of my verdant avenue.
as the piano sang
and the drums hushed
the cello hummed
the rain stopped falling.
I have seen the clouds roll
over the cemeteries and
the hills
like a gray mask over the city.
she wears it sullenly.
from my third-story window
I can look out over the
bricks and the wires
that crisscross like webs
over the traffic.
I can smell the chow mein
from the pushcarts below
and the damp rain
on the beige of the newspaper.
I lay back on the leather
the second leather my back
has felt in an hour.
beyond the smoking ashtray
on my paint-peeling windowsill
across the street
in her own world
there is a skinny girl
with a tattoo of a dragon
on her neck down her arm
she’s wearing pajamas.
I wonder what her stereo
is playing.
in two years
she'll have nothing left.
I think about how I’m
not fat
or stupid
and how glad I should be,
but it all just seems
dull anymore.
someone feels like I do
if only we cared enough
to make feeling worthwhile.
I expect things from people
and never tell them
what they are.
so I am disappointed
as the rain falls again
across the face
of the concrete Jesus
who watches the barrio.
a thousand tired feet
in a city that always walks
old men in chesterfield coats
hipsters with Pabst in their hands
Puerto Ricans and Vietnamese
the rain’s all falling
everybody’s tired
nobody gives a damn
or maybe I only give a damn
about myself.