The watery hiss
Of wet tires
Creeps in
Through the open window,
As I sit
In the near dark
Of my tiny apartment
Listening
To the rare rain
Of a Southern California spring.
The light from outside
Strikes the floor
In slices,
Coming through the blinds
And the spotted window.
From time to time,
The Friday night
Footsteps
Click and shuffle
On the wet sidewalk
And umbrellas,
Pulled from hibernation
In forgotten closets,
Cover two heads
From the drizzling sky.
Timothy Vance Jackson
April 10, 2009
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