The air is a miraculous shade
of invisible white.
That’s what happens to rain
after midnight.
To old guys like me
taking walks in the rain.
We have no other place to go.
To be authentic.
To be permitted to think
and shout out loud,
unafraid of bats,
of the sky’s luster,
of old concrete,
as old as our faces.
We see ourselves in puddles,
in the roses of dark puddles,
under the lamplight
where nothing exists
but ourselves and the silence
of the rain.
Rain,
the only language that speaks
to the heart,
the only comrade
that eases the light and dark
of all memories,
flaring up in insane pictures,
soft faces,
boxes of life piled in a cellar.
Taken there,
sealed, wrapped, hidden away,
put aside,
one box called youth,
one box called love,
one box for all the bills
I never paid to others,
friendship, attention, encouragement,
and just plain company.
And some boxes,
several,
of odds and ends,
tastes, lacquers, holidays, special events,
chance, one of a kind glances.
They all come back in the rain,
the only silence,
a man looking into the mirror
of life,
gazing into its dark lacuna,
seeing the soul in its puddles,
and wishing.
If only I had kissed them more,
stayed with them,
given more of my hands and face,
those eyes
looking up from the street
would not stare back at me,
and make my heart
beat so loudly,
even above the sound of the rain.