A Crossing at 6:54 AM, Port Angeles
Rain pesters the Olympic Peninsula,
and like the parent/guardian of the stuff,
You learn to drown it out.
My sister and I steered our car toward Port Angeles,
It’s a club-house of which the wintering light is not a member.
We debate whether the homes we pass have kitchy junkyard style,
Or if they have unironically spiraled into junkyards on the slide of alcoholism.
Tomorrow, the morning sun is conspicuously absent,
No doubt busy illuminating diversely-dressed New Yorkers.
We walk to get coffee without him,
Still dark, still damp, still dripping:
The cross-walks play tag with no bossy sounds to shut them up.
Squirrely and Reich-like.
The lights slink across the wet black streets, crawling around like poorly-defined newts.
The sound and light have a great scene going on.
Bright lights show me a mural of an elk in the rain in the dark of the street.