THE RAIN SO COLD
The air of the day abhors us
and drives outliers like her
inside the crowded train.
She speed talks it hurts
my eyes it’s too wet
like wet whatever
and cold in my eyes.
I ride the length of town
with her and smiling nuns,
skateboards, teens kissing,
toddlers on leashes,
Mission Bay to Ocean Beach.
Wet riders come and go.
The orator and I hold firm.
Who gives alms to Poor Tom
when the foul fiend vexes?
The rain lets up:
out on the sidewalks
Asian gleaners appear
with smiley-face latex gloves
and XXL garbage bags,
neatly dressed, picking through
the city’s sinuses,
fastidious and focused
among the street singers
and their pussy scabs split
across raw fatty hands:
they sing to their doubles,
the elementals and invisibles
whose squeaky vocals reel
from tree roots and concrete.
