For Richard Hawley

I wait.
In the rain,
at the top of the hill.
But no view,
no words,
nothing
of you.
Today.

I walk,
a cafe.
Steamed graffiti windows,
fried egg
stained
racing papers.

I drink sweet tea,
chew toast.
Margarine minds,
soaked strangers,
they come,
and go.

Later.
In my bare bulbed room.
I draw open the window.

The crack,
sizzle,
of the tram wires,
bring you back home,
to those other rain towns,
of long ago.