The rain in the street washes down to the gutter
while birds stand watch on telephone wires.
Dark night drifts like a cloud over parked cars
and finely dressed homeless men.
Every day at this time, in these places,
life is distinguishable from death by the thinnest of threads,
by the nodding of heads as my shadow passes swiftly.
The rain in the street washes away from the gutter
towards the end of town,
and I wonder if it will ever change.
Light of day creeps like an infant scorned,
spreading plumes of wonder.
Every day in these crowded street scenes,
through binoculars long since faded,
through the lenses of indifference,
we come into contact with ourselves.
And we all fall together, every day.