The rain in its patter
sounds to be trying
to drum home a point
already made, such moribund
yammer
hey – you got that?
wafts in sweet cologne, some rosy
cheap knock-off more cloying
than haunt brings an ache
to my head, eclipses the migraine
I once had in Nam, when those stars turned mist
to shroud good men of both sides
I would light ’em if I had ’em, feel the need
for strong smoke, held breath in incantation
awaiting release, new days will come
a roman candle erupts in my mind, I see
shiny things to fixate upon, come and go
divert my attention from checks marked Void
though the paper on which they print
is precisely the price I pay
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 