Rain in Waltham
Rain in Waltham, same rain as anywhere.
Water drops mixed with dust, risen
from bodies of water
unknown to me;
same rain yet different, I hear it —
the way it keeps pounding away:
rain aimed at me. It’s so personal,
the way it strikes the window;
the way someone is taking forty Nembutals
in the apartment next door. And
my heart is shaken by a look of goodbye
coming from twenty-five years ago; and
Dan’s dopey smile the last time he turned
on Third Avenue, giving me the finger.
I have a roof over me, and if I have to go out
I have my own coat to wear.
But it started so long ago, and it is drowning me now —
the rain of insanity, the rain of poverty
the rain in Waltham.
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