A man stood in the silent rain watching me.
Drenched, he wore a black raincoat and blond hair.
His blond hair and raincoat drenched, he ghost-stared.
I drifted in, out of his gaze, but he stayed.
A stranger’s gaze, it had my father’s staid eyes.
They didn’t haunt me like some living eyes did.
A friendly ghost’s eyes that didn’t live to haunt.
He stood there, a mannequin in the rain.
His voice silent as rain that stood suspended.
His mouth opened like a zero from heaven.
As though heaven opened for him, his mouth,
to say what he had to say to me, left here.
Here he didn’t know what to say, as in life.
The man just stood watching in the silent rain.
David Spicer has published poems in Santa Clara Review, Moria, Oyster River Pages, and elsewhere. Nominated for a Best of the Net three times and a Pushcart twice, he is author of six chapbooks, the latest Tribe of Two. His second collection, Waiting for the Needle Rain, is now available.
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