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.