(C) R.L.K.
So many poems about the rain have been written
in a place like this: a sparsely-lit, leaky depot
where someone is waiting, silently waiting
for the next train to arrive, not caring
where the train is bound, for it is the departing itself
that matters -- one lonesome old town is like
any other lonesome old town when the rain has become
the sound and the shade and the shape of the world.
