Loud Lincoln #3

It’s going to rain. The bright lights and iridescent colors can’t shake away the unadulterated need of thunderclouds to lighten their load. The water is going to be shunted-off roof tops, off another roof top, onto the pavement and into the sewer where it will be flushed out like waste. Pushed and pulled, slightly controlled, as it’s overzealous bearing tips the scale and overflows the gutters of the city. Ignored, and for the most part unwanted, it moves onto other places where it’s a life-bringer and not a nuisance.

I can smell it. Along with the hot dog vendor left over from 5^th St.and the smell of the addict’s piss over in the corner. You can take the girl out of the Midwest, but the Midwest still hangs on the girl. I’ve disguised it with beads, designer clothes, and the Virginia Slims, but it’s still there.

The recognition that a lightning storm is coming. The knowledge when staring in someone’s eyes, that they are hurt. In this “Me” centered city, looking at another person and wondering who they are, instead of brushing by, ignoring the angst on a face like it’s a hemorrhoid commercial.

As I’m waiting for my date, the jazz leaks out of the joint-almost egging the thundercloud to burst with a barry sax solo. He’s not going to come.

The cigarette is almost out, and the smell of the rain is fading, maybe next time.

But as, I go in, it starts to pour, and the air becomes suddenly clear of all the soot and grime it’s accumulated through the day. It smells perhaps like home.

And the syncopation of the drops adds to the percussionist’s beat. People’s faces smiling for the first time in a long hectic day. Maybe it’s the music and maybe it’s the rain.