He stood in the rain. There were no rainbows to
Cheer him up.
He was a long low note on a blues trumpet. The note
Was a lonely one and it wailed out as slowly as a solid
Sundown in the desert.
And as he stood in the rain, every day was a Monday.
He remembers there were no good-bye trains's glass-pressing
Kisses between their lips. There were no pressed window
Panes dividing their drawn clawing hands. As he watched
The remnants recede to a dot between the cold steel
Tracks, he thought: "Was this the residue of life?"
He saw the once filled tomato fields now buried and dried.
And he cried. All that tomato land looks lost among
Those full condominiums.
No rainbows in the night. No sun to wash their faces.
Not even a shadow in the rain.
My, how the rain makes the night so cold.