The Boulevard
For Giovanna

I

The boulevard is wet with rain
A great black mirror reflecting
Street lamps & the moon's bright face
Or dully-hued shadows as they careen
Across curbs or gutters
Towards bus stops or bars

The cars roam thickly through
The streets weaving their way
Past the lingerie shops tourist spots
The grim grey stone facades of banks
Mist rising from their passing
Pelts old men & prostitutes as
They shuffle home or to restaurants
Or simply stand on the corner with
Their poor postures leather skirts
Or plaid pants

On a farther corner a man sings
Of the lost youth of World Wars
Remembering possibly his father
As a child or carousing these
Same streets before shipping out
To crusade for a lot of forgotten things
& his song dies with the coming of the rain


II

The rain falls like stones
On the Church of Scientology
& the prostitutes who take shelter
Beneath the overhangs of investment
Brokerages it fills the empty spaces
Left by old men who have passed on
Wakes the homeless from dreams
Or lesser nightmares draws flyers
Bits of twine plastic bags & bottles
Into the gutter rushing them off
To storm drains & into the roaring
Undercurrents of the city

Cars hydroplane through red lights
& into one another bits of metal glass
Litter the black face of the street
Like stars across a vast expanse
Of cracked & patched heavens as steam
Rises in the nebulous swirling dance
Of anything released
From the dark visage
Of asphalt
The flailing arms
Of rain



Fl–x   [BL/´DE] '94