Only Rhythm

There is no melody
to pouring rain there is only rhythm.
The melody is in
car horns, thumping base, chattering
crowds, street advertisers,
one man bands
and the hopeless
random pounding on sidewalk
tin can and
the only thing left
of home.

The people come and go
to see the story
of Ruth with real smiles from
fake joys.
And their hearts pound underneath
the din and close
Each beat a yank to open
the lock that’s rusted shut—
who has the time to find the key?

And when they crack
the reverberation
begins at one end and
until a jagged line turns
one into two.

Red and
blue and
green and
yellow and
black and
spill out in a rush
of noise.
There is no time to
mop it up.

It’s followed by
a silence like
the one you see
when lightning strikes
just before the thunder makes
teeth chatter and
replaces the beating
of hearts.


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