Driftwood

The rain hasn't started yet,
flickering neon down the street
lights up the bottom of the fog,
lights up the puddles on the sidewalk.

At Mahli's Hall the fast music ends,
a person of pleasant curves finds a window sill,
perches like a piece of seductive driftwood,
weasel eyes dance about

like flames on kindling.
I leave the driftwood behind
and follow the music out into the mizzle,
a cat retreats into the bushes,

the past stretches down the street
in front of me and yawns.
Two crows are on the street,
we each stand in our own pool of shadow

and pull on the tide of melancholy.
Flickering neon raindrops fall,
pleasant curves cross the sill
and walk through the puddles.

It's many-troubles day, the little spiders
on my eyelids keep me awake,
and the driftwood goes out with the tide.