Rain with its wet daub on the window Reminds him of the way memory tends To bleed into time while that old pain Stays stagnant like a mossy puddle.

Reminds him of that high room In which a lamp flickered against A rained out city horizon with its Sharp lines of steel buildings and Soft curves of church copulas, Then a grey wash of a failed painter.

Reminds him of that afternoon With its forgotten winter date, With its tight embrace of sleep, In which it was impossible to foresee This season of watery light that Now seems to stay constant even In the absence of rain’s blur.

Heart – that organ which bears a raft Of meanings beyond its cargo Of blood, bile, and hard cold facts–

Today sits in its rain-wet courtyard, Attired like a vain courtesan despite the arthritic feet, jowly jaws, Hair more white than black, Voice more croak than tuneful,

And foolishly hums snatches From ghazals (in Malhar no less!) As if it were performing again In the beloved’s chambers.

You watch the hair of rain Thicken and thin In the headlights of cars As their wheels sluice Through the foamy scruff,

Spraying you in benediction (As tears used to once When you still had Capacity for them),

As you wait to finish listening to a song* Spilling out of café With this refrain:

"You go back, Jack, Do it again, Wheel turning round and round."

* Steely Dan's awesome "Do It Again"