Raindrops on lenses
scattering streetlamps
and carlights
like Monet
(or is it Manet?)

as I wend my way
toward lonely cocktails
in a candlelit bar
that will be toopacked
for my sentiments.

(I said I’d quit,
but here I am,
slow burn
in hand.)

The air smells wet and smoky
and the streets aren’t deserted
as they should be
and the sky is in the sidewalks

there’s a little girl in front of me
in a dark raincoat
and crumpled boots
I’ll never be happy again.

Not another sad poem,
you say,
(and it’s ridiculous,
I know)
but rainy nights
lend themselves
to sad poems.


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