The heavy drops of rain fall along PGA Boulevard
And the crispness of the bright cafes with their dimly lit panes
Hugged by the chalky exterior of some long-forgotten, Paris inspired boutique
And on one of the statues outside that one art gallery the girl on the swing the colorful flowers the butterfly
And the 9/11 monument outside the fire station
Rusting what looks like a scrap of metal forged by a starving artist but represents one nation’s tragedy and another nation’s hate
It’s staining the stark blackness of the hollow streets with its fluorescent dew
Humming on the roof of deaf houses
Wrapping us in the closeness of our homes the high ceilings and metallic hum drum of our tvs
It is with the utmost precision that Mr. Waters slips his hand through the sleek leather handles of a briefcase and sips his midnight brewed black coffee
While the house next door fills with the clumsy shuffle of early morning feet and stifled yawns and the rain continues to fall and seal the newness of houses that all look alike with their thick wooden doors and second story balconies, Mírasol
And a 2014 Mercedes with a quarter filled tank sits outside an empty garage
And Tom who just got laid off acts as if both he and the house are being foreclosed and Becky’s son comes home thick and heavy headed each night from the greasy bar a block from Don’s the first of our babies corrupted
‘What’s happening to our children”
Its been a pleasant morning only a light drizzle to frizz the hair and water the weeds
But its coming steadily now
Falling on the cars of snowbirds with their thickly spread Brooklyn accents or is it Queens I forget and they’re still talking politics and cracking their political jokes with the cracked voices of people who worked too long and too hard not to complain
Its raining on Cod and Caper’s with its too fancy restaurant and the upturned noses of its “All- American” customers Dining
And it’s raining across Cobb and its empty parking spaces
It passes along St. Mark’s, all steel beams and floor- to- ceiling windows
And they are calling for rain through tomorrow
5 inches an hour over I-95
As it empties itself into the Atlantic
Its raining on narrow canals and over-built lots
Its raining on us all
With our ill-functioning raincoats and child-sized rain boots
As we approach that bridge
The one two blocks
Down from that one intersection
And American Dream is scrawled in graffiti on the underside of an anonymous bridge in an anonymous city