I’ve been looking for you in the syllables
of other men. Their humidity raining
through skin and linen.

This rain greysoaks the concrete-carpetsky
the very same silver, scent and sinew
as the day you left.

I feel the weight of weeks tug my lower lip
and lashes. It’s certainly been weeks
since the last rainfall.

I stand behind a woman in red
rainboots and lycra I can barely see
the oncoming traffic. I blink through the condensation.

I hear a whimper eek
out. you are not coming
back. I’d take you in
a second. Weakness
is Hubris. Hubris is
less about self than it is
about lack.

I close the eyes
I was given. Sight
is for the living
and history is a fable
of great men being great
in great times.  Broken
up into lines and snorted
by classes of masses.
Opiate and sand.

The bus pulls up.
Sweat pearls and beads
from my hairline scalping past
temples pulling forward. I tell myself I am OK.