Today

I wake up in the afternoon and open the window. Through the rusting metal grills of my mother's childhood I watch the slanting rain outside. A quiet conversation with the smell of wet earth, as if there is some continuity in our being. The shaggy tree outside slumbers on this diffused afternoon. The frail curtains suffer in their tender restlessness. Pigeon carousal in the distance, and the cars seem to be passing forever. The mirror shows me balding. There are guests outside, in the living room. I lock the door, seat myself on the old cane chair, and begin to study the rain.