smooth

the soft gun of rain--

here are the belching engines,
 
and rusted teargas

of car exhaust.  a child

waving from a tinted window

small as the drops

lining his reflection.

at the end are scented hours--

the young perfume of mourning,

at my funeral in the early AM.  you

smell of incense and hickory, a 

delight  to watch from

cozy padding.  don't expect too much of

me: it's your turn to put on a performance

mine is over.