Down pour

1

Global warming blurs my vision

As I drive home from work,

Streets flooded so that tires swish

And with both hands tight

On the steering wheel

I make my way through the gray

Like a sailor seeking port,

Storms of life swaying me

This way and that,

And only my internal compass

To bring me to that place

Where I intended to go

2

They say the seasons

Have not changed

Rain, rain, then warm again,

The heart of the great cold north

Gone to trickles

Of what it once was,

Blizzards of four feet

When  I was a kid

Shrinking to four inches

People bitch about

Until a real blizzard

Comes and they are

Frozen into doing nothing.

Temperatures plummeting

Into the deep freeze

Of 40 degrees

As if the broken back

Of the sunshine state

Has crawled north,
leaving bits and pieces

And only memories

Of our grandfathers’ time

When a season

Was still a season,

And life predictable

As extinct

As the dinosaurs

3

Old ruins

Stacked against

The riverside fence

The vast vestige

Of an inglorious

Industrialized past

Three fires later

And immigrants

Have no place to go,

Block after block

Of level ground

On Sunday

They drive through

For the memories,

Teary-eyed

Remembering,

Old days

When a good job

Could still be

Found here,

The first illegal

Step into

The new world

Flowing away

With the long cold

Ashes each time

It rains

4

He told us

He feared she had

Poisoned his life

With words

And now,

No matter,

How he searched

The dictionary,

He could find

No antidote.

He said

She took his hand

On night

Pressing into his flesh

The vowels

Of his name

There for a world

To see and he

Unable to rub

Off the secrets

Revealed there,

Knowing that

Every rat and rodent

Knew all he felt

And only then

Did she float

Away like a leaf

Upon the river

He looks out over

Each day

From the bridge,

Rain or shine

5

A dry cold wind

Blows up the leaves,

Leaves long dead

And brown, full of

Haunted rustlings

And remembered days,

Old faces pressed

Against the grown

When the rains do come

Released only to freeze again

In some new sleep,

Shrouded over with

Each coming of snow,

The merciless city

Casting shadows over them

On every side.

6

First cold day of the year

Shivering leaves

Washing along the ground

With the wind

River water slapping

The side of the dock

And the bridge,

Last laugh before

Turning to ice,

Old men shuffling

Over the bridge

From the Clifton side

For their dose of coffee

And gossip

No more spring time

Dreams

Only the furious voice

Whistling at the radiators

At home and

Thicker covers

On their beds

To keep out

The chill

7

The silence comes

On rainy days

When radios blare

Inside cars

With closed windows,

And Latin children’s

Faces stare out

Apartment windows

As if deprived

The swish of tires

Kicking up water

From the street,

While a few honk

Horns to push

The slow pokes

Out of the way,

Fast food clerks,

Bank clerks,

Insurance clerks,

Clerks, clerks

And more clerks

Made late by the late

Rain and the back up

On this bridge.

8

Yes or nod

The cold wind

Blows with December rain

It should be snow

The bridge crossed

Hour ago

Should have been

Covered with ice,

And George Washington

Spouting a beard

Where he supposedly

Crossed up stream,

The team of traffic rising

Up above the cables

And lights

Beyond him,

The deep black Hudson

With its twinkling gaze

But no slow,

Just traffic jams

On both sides

And rain

And squeal of tires

As I sit here,

Staring back

In the rear view mirror

Making my own retreat.

9

Rain splattered driveway

Draws mud like blood

The old separation

Still evident

A line where

The asphalt stops

Old owner, Stella,

With never enough

Spare cash to finish it

End to end,

Patching the patch

With squares of concrete

She and Chet

(now dead all these long years)

Leaving only this quilt

Of stone and mud

And incomplete puzzle

Which I still struggle

To make sense of