Two Rain Poems

One: Hokey

"I work at La Salle
in food service--the
best part's the women.
I want them all.
It doesn't matter what
color they are--I
just want all the women."
You've got to have
eye-candy, I told him,
as I looked into his eyes,
which were like two glassy
moons reflected off a lake.
We walked the block
through seconds, laughing
like brothers, and
there was the cold,
freezing rain sudden
and gone, vanished,
my body warming up just
for an entire bold minute.

Two: Indulgence Before You Called

Today was a day of it.
My belly rumbles after
pepper ham on a baguette,
packed with a romaine crunch,
twin pickles, mayo and mustard,
hot and sweet peppers, cheese
and olive oil and spices.
I stuffed my mouth while
talking to Jeff on the phone
after I had stumbled in
out of the numbing spirit
and numbing darkness of
Philadelphia's deep cloggings.
It wasn't the first intake;
I also had three cups
of coffee today and am
now working on my fourth.
I also had two packages
of ramen noodles cooked
in oil and peanuts, sprinkled
with ginger and chili powder.
I also had half a bar of
Belgian chocolate, dark
finger-length slabs at 73%
and mild-tasting, and chewy,
with only a little chalk
to pay mind to as I read and
contemplated buying a square
of rich, sugar-encrusted cake,
but I didn't because I knew,
yes I knew that I would end up
guzzling down a glass of water,
luke-warm and delicious, and a
glass jar filled with orange juice,
from the previously-frozen
concentrate, all watered-down
without pulp or menace or sweet
twang, yet still coinciding
with the sweet victory of the rain,
freezing to the white trash bags
like armor or burnt fabric melting
into soft, damageable skin,
as they sit out in that sweeping sop
that I felt my own legs pound through,
walking around maddeningly between
South and North Philadelphia, and
wondering what the hell am I doing,
as a statement not a question,
thanking Rexroth with the inspiration,
and all the bookstores for letting me
hop around even though nothing felt
interesting and James Wright kept
saying: "after reading a depressing
book of poetry," in a poem of his own,
and all the maddening spotlights
and fabric stores of Queen Village
and the same old subway urine smell
and the trash-lined streets unchanged--
a break from such satisfaction with
a phone call of long-drawled stories,
where I could finally sit, satiated,
and simply take in as buzzing those chirps--