From the other street

Last night I listened to the rain
While I was on bed, and measured the journey
I must tolerate before I 
Could reach my sleep—hopefully
Nothing of Plato—it would've been
A strong venom of coffee diluting away
My lassitude, leaving only throbbing migraines.

Then, something I didn't expect
Happened—though minute, exceptionally clear
Noises echoed that of the soles
Of leather shoes, which tapped on
The street, along with the walker, who
Sauntered.

I pictured a man who had no burden—certainly
Not from the rain; and definitely not
From the time, although it must've been quite late.

He probably wore a nice coat, and with his
Large hands in the pockets at two sides, he
Could stroll so carefree on black wet tar.

Perhaps, he would take out a little
Notebook, and with another hand, he would hold
A dull pencil—showing his thin clear-cut
Fingers and nails—he would start to note down
Exclamation marks of appreciation.

The night was cold enough, and doubtless
He would make those fascinating white puffs
Out of his mouth as he sighed, "Beautiful."

Surely, he wouldn't even notice the—

Then, a sudden silence enveloped the
Night again, with the rain still pouring. 
I heard a twist of a key, and there he
Went inside—he was only on his way home—

That shoved my sleep away.

Dale Chou
2001-03-26