BLACK NIGHT RAIN

Black night rain.

As if someone had taken off their mirrors

like lingerie

and thrown them out an upstairs window.

The asphalt shines.

The cement sidewalks weep like watercolours

that wanted to be painted in oils.

The cool air is having a conversation with my skin.

Serpentine rainbows easing down the drains

like the flashback of a sixties acid trip

that got high on my brain

almost half a century ago

and never came down again.

West coast vertigo.

But even the pigeons under the eaves know

if you want to fly

you’ve got to get off the train

even if it is transcontinental.

And if it isn’t worth the trip.

Don’t go.

I went

to see what I couldn’t conquer.

Some went back the way they came.

No shame in that.

One mile east is one mile west.

You do what you can

and call it your best.

But I never found a return address

and where it’s all going

is still my second guess.

A teenager in a doorway bums a cigarette.

It’s too wet to look

for butts and roaches in the park.

For a moment we check each other out

as if we were both involved

in this same insane accident called life.

I say there’s a severe storm warning out.

She says she’s not afraid of the lightning.

I say that’s an enlightened attitude

and ask for my Zippo back.

She says sorry. I say the best of us are

and walk away cooly

like something unruly

but self-contained as rain

into the deepening desolation

and Maenadic frenzy of the night.

Apres moi le deluge.

But even among these billions of water droplets

I can feel her eyes dripping down my neck

like ice-cubes of Orphic anti-matter

in the sweat lodge of a prophetic skull.

And then the inevitable.

Hey mister can I walk with you awhile?

You don’t look dangerous or insane.

And I don’t like to be out on my own at night.

I say my dance card is full

but walking’s ok

at least part of the way.

Where we going?

I say isn’t what brings us both together

on a homeless night like this

the fact that we don’t know

and I’ve got the cigarettes?

She says I know you’re a poet

but I bet I can tell a better lie

than you can tell a joke.

I say it’s an occupational hazard

of learning to sing

without a punchline

or two minutes without a hook

as irresistible as jail bait

to the bottom feeders.

She says you’re way too serious.

I say for who

you or me?

This is just the down time of the mystery

when my personal history

feels like a snakepit.

She said do you think I’m mysterious.

I say no

you’re just curious

about how I can keep dancing

without getting bit.

No one’s afraid of the lightning

until they get hit.

She says what makes you think I haven’t?

I say you’re walking with me.

She says yeah

you may be a stranger

but I’m not the one who’s in danger.

And besides you’ve got the windproof Zippo

and stash of native cigarettes.

Can I have a dry one?

Mine’s drenched.

She says you got an old lady?

I say no one in mind.

She says do you think I’m a crazy bitch.

I say you have the potential.

She says I like you

you’re funny and kind.

I said there’s no point

in tying our shoelaces together

when I’m wearing cowboy boots.

She says you can always take them off.

I say only for a muse.

She says don’t I inspire you?

I say you’re bobbing for skulls

in the summer of life

when you should be

trying to take a bite

out of a windfall of apples

that are happy to lie at your feet.

She says most guys don’t like me

because I’m too honest.

I say lies that heal are true

and truths that wound are lies.

She says you really believe it?

I say I’m talking to you aren’t I?

She says is that supposed to be

some kind of poem?

I say no

it’s just the flow

of the xylem and phloem

of a tree that’s been struck by lightning

more than once.

She says can I make a suggestion?

I say don’t ask a deceptive question

and expect a straight answer.

She says you want to go down

to the willows by the river

and have a good cry.

I say I’ve already disembarked

from that ark

when it left me high and dry

on the top of Mt. Ararat

with two of every kind?

She says what kind am I?

I say the latest mutation.

A whole new species unto yourself.

She says is that good or bad?

I say no

just kind of lonely and sad.

She says what makes you say that?

I say the peduncle is lost in the ensuing phylum.

She says you mean you don’t know?

I say you haven’t lived enough yet

with desire or regret

to be seeking asylum

in the Burgess Shale.

She says first impressions

are the ones that last the longest.

First come.

Last gone.

I say that’s something

you should keep your eye on.

PATRICK WHITE