M. S. Conroy
Mainstreet at Night in Rain

All the noises mix
together like a wet radio between
stations, horns blaring
with a mad echo as
dogs howl faintly below
the purr of
idling engines breathing
smoke and
all the colors
pour through
the mist and
the pothole puddles so
that one color begins where
another ends.

My town is a running
water color composed by
a toddler-- the
fog, a wet sponge on a
vibrant canvas smearing
the lamplight all into
the air, obscuring
the night into
broad brush stroke splashes of
wet paint, blurring
the words on
the stale street signs glowing
Mazz's and Black Diamond and
Joe's and melting
people into mere
splotches of colored motion.

The blacks run with
the orange until
it all looks gold and then
the steady stream of reds and greens from
the long line of traffic lights descending
from the top of the hill cut
through the center spilling
their light into
the wet, smoothed cracks of
the dark gravel like a
luminous serpent racing to
the refuge of
the night.

Driving past
the Old Dog Inn with
my windshield covered
in ripples it
whimpers. Light!
Light! Everywhere an electric
Rainbow. The drops
fall like luminescent sprinkles from
a twirling broken glow stick,
kamikaze lightening bugs splattering
against the pavement fractalizing--
in every one a
minuscule reflection of
mainstreet at
night in
the rain as the
cavernous static of
the radio
cackles in
the corner of
my mind.