Nothing the city does is as good as the rain
twisting its strands like a wrung mop,
rinsing in silver the grime of our labor.
Who can wash us clean again? Rain,
pouring through drains, sounds the organ
pipe of our forgiveness, drums the line
of stalled cars like a patient mother,
drowns our little routines. Here at the hushed
center, under roofs, whether making love
in the gray afternoon or idling with Cuban jazz,
the ghost of another life rises out of the
drizzle. This is the day for great departures;
two by two we climb to the ark, already
the gangplanks are down, the chief bosun swings
his oil lamp slowly, slowly, to light our way.
The Gift of Experience
10th Anniversary Anthology
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Home Pond
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Nothing the City Does
Ron De Maris