Front door in his face
rude deliverance from hot mingling
into a lowering night
last fruitless pull on the cord, then turn, resigned
sear of familiar shame spreads his face
let the rain lash
the same storm is a cauldron
its loud gusts stir and strew the leaves
in eddies of shadow at dark tenements
closed against the encroaching winter
whiplash cold and wet sobers
to some extent, but still
humilation loops his acid mind
and churning stomach
abject and quick-swaddled
he contends blindly away
not conscious of the route taken
feels:
intrigues
calumnies
slanders
conspiracies
thinks of them, knotted in the storm
at the prospect, the tempest
redoubles its efforts
he is almost off his feet
then a slight lull brings him to himself
allows lack of noise enough
to curse his misdirection.
To make homeward; go via the prospect
it is near
the howling takes on a new quality
in the void of water and sky
emerging from slant streets
the far end of the bridge
is barely visible
here the unconstrained downpour
comes down at an obtuse angle
and not a soul anywhere-
until he sees or thinks he sees
a blur against the storm-blur
another scurrying and wet-through wretch
when the raging elements are at crescendo
nearing the huddled figure from behind
stretching out a hand to his shoulder
seeing him warily half turn, foreshadowing mirror of fear
already looming is the pale disaster
of meeting yourself.
