for who hath known

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The rainman in you is revolting
against the brick noise,
the noxious perfume
of urban exhaustion,
the incredible closeness
of your greatest love
and persecutor
whose familiarity
and warmth is the dawn
of your daily undoing,
against a radio in the lucid
evacuation of everything
tuned to a channel
for the chronically unwashed
announcing a spill on the road
and, wouldn’t you know it,
the tissue in your pocket
half stiff with blood and mucus
isn’t enough to put a dent
in the mess of it all.
What’s not a misery
is how this movie, it ends,
but it needs and needs
a few more minutes to tie up
loose threads and avoid the anger
of an audience hungry for what—
is what you don’t understand.
Maybe it’s you they want
fighting on your way home
the urge to step into traffic,
into a flash of white light
creeping up on your right
that you, neither fixed nor fragrant
with a desperate will to live,
make silent peace with.
As if by some mercy
you’d be granted a way out,
when, let’s face it tiger,
you were only ever looking
for a way in.