what you have is the forward march of time
these rains come and they pour
the three black-coated strangers with blue plastic bags
on a foggy street punctuated by cars going the wrong way
guffawing, barrel-chested, smokers in the winter
for those fleeting seconds you wish your souls could trade places
transiently escape things that drain you
but you are stuck with leaves in a gutter after a thunderstorm
browning, rotting, an unanticipated natural decay
in this place you thought had no seasons
the only respite from self-smothering angst is
one foot in front of the other
the forward march of time
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