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
[…] Anything Wet Or Dry / J HARDY CARROLL […]
The poem evokes the narrator’s sombre mood, and contrasts it with an unnamed woman’s lively appreciation of her surroundings. The narrator seems to feel that perhaps he has chosen to be gloomy; he had never listened and was no longer watching anything.
Well written, but not something to read on a wet Sunday afternoon!
Not exactly a match made in heaven, is it?