BY A. J. HUFFMAN
Copyright is held by the author.
Watching the Rain
gather on a tired handrail leading to the subway,
the metal worn, possibly diseased, layered in years
of germs left by fingers and palms. I wonder if it sees
the water as temporary relief, even as it quickly rolls
off its smooth curves. I look deeper, searching
for the answer in the tiny drops clinging
to the underside of the silver cylinder. What I see
is a strange universe, a bizarre abstraction
of the city surrounding us, skyscrapers smashed
flat, mixing with the graffitied letters, spelling out
a bizarre tomorrow that somehow seems to make sense
in a blink of a moment just before it falls
into the obliterating oblivion of another anonymous puddle.
Why It Opens
Of Screeching
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