Anything Wet Or Dry

She loved the city
cloaked in rain and fog.
The wet gray mist
seemed to her romantic.
To me it was funereal,

from the back of the cab
watching the wipers smear the rain
but she was almost giddy
sitting on the edge of the seat
craning her neck

to see the building-tops wreathed
in mists.  I watched the people
hunched against the rain as they walked,
infused with what seemed to me
tragic purpose.

I realized she had been talking.
I was not listening, had never listened
and in the dry luxury of this taxi
was no longer watching
anything, wet or dry.


Written in response to The Daily Post : Windows