Nothing—
you could list
is just
what it is—
least of all this
slippery grey and
gloomy thing
pronounced—morning
in spring;
look hard—and there's
always
these small kisses
of sun-
light slipping
around inside
each big fat new drop
of dull
rain on your windshield;
or merely—begin
to feel around
for the faint
oily
residue—of old Chopin
that's slow-
ly
but
surely—
lubricating your traffic jam.
