January Rain

Yeah,
I’m a poet.

But you won’t see me write about listening to Vivaldi in a Brooklyn barber shop.

I don’t drink coffee
and I don’t even know if the lilacs do bloom in June.

When I see a beautiful woman I don’t notice the color of her eyes, or the specific shade of her hair.
I see her beauty.

The Devil’s in the details
so I generally don’t bother with them.

Oh,
I notice some details.

I know that it’s January 31st
and raining.

I notice one individual rain drop on my windshield —
Illuminated by the gas station lights —
it pools briefly, then runs quickly
in a stream
to oblivion.

Yesterday it rained too,

and I noticed the slurping sound
as the heel of my new shoe
lifted from the mud.

And I noticed the beauty
of the heavy oak box
in which we carried grandma
from the hearse
to the hole.