The drips and drops of the once and future Florida rain

Beat out a rhythm that carries me into the night

The last bits of wine drowning out the day that turned into night

Before my work was done

Cars pause and then burst forward making the turn

By my little corner lot of heaven

Never knowing that in the dark

And dank night an artist

Is painting with the only tool she has

Words

Poor and pathetic syllables that tell her story

And all the ones that come up to her door

Like stale – four day old butts cling to

an olfactory life

Hoping to be remembered

Hoping to have matter

Hoping to be more than a desperate man’s

Attempt to feel something beyond himself

And his addiction to nicotine.