-from Wednesday 3:15 PM to 10:38 PM-

Tim's requiem

when it rains its effects are felt inside the house.

there’s nothing enlightening on television during the mid-
afternoon slots and the weightless parakeet’s
belly-up among the droppings of Tuesday’s equally
weightless news.

now the twelve year olds across the street
consider a last cigarette while approaching
their homes from a day at school.

It's a close call.
they say "yes" and share another one
in the common bond of childhood rebellion.

let's take an uneventful drive in the rain.

returning to darkness we engage the lights.

we’re motived by rainfall,—

how it taps upon the pavement
how it beads upon the metal
how the work-

weary men and women drop their heads,
contorting their expressions confronting the water
as if in a proof that its earthborn acids burn their skin.

when the rain stops, the night's disposition
is a three-for-one chore.

the articles of Tuesday are neatly rolled
over the parakeet, like the fixings of a dry cigar,
where a short walk through the backdoor to the trash bins
lay "Tim",  this day and yesterday's news to final rest.