The Rainwalkers


An old man whose black face
Shines golden-brown as wet pebbles
Under the streetlamp, is walking two mongrel dogs of dis-
Proportionate size, in the rain,
In the relaxed early-evening avenue.

The small sleek one wants to stop,
Docile to the imploring soul of the trashbasket,
But the young tall curly one
Wants to walk on; the glistening sidewalkentices him to arcane happenings.

Increasing rain. The old bareheaded man
Smiles and grumbles to himself.
The lights change: the avenue’s
Endless nave echoes notes of
Liturgical red. He drifts

Between his dogs’ desires.
The three of them are enveloped –
Turning now to go crosstown – in their
Sense of each other, of pleasure,
Of weather, of corners,
Of leisurely tensions between them
And private silence.


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The Rainwalkers