Cold Rain

'Twas a grey sort of day.
Outside, the wind was blowing
Damp and chill, the thinnest mist.

You sat on the porch, alone,
On cement cold like the sky,
Contemplating the world.

It was a lone drop at first;
A wet tap on the cheek.
You twitched slightly at the touch.

Soon the drops fell in earnest,
Great globes of water
Shattering on the earth.

Moody now, you took a walk,
Snatching first your umbrella
And slipping on galoshes.

Every other step a splash,
You ambled slowly through the streets
Empty of any other.

Turning a corner, you come upon
A straggler unprotected
Save for a poncho and a fire.

A fire in the rain? you think;
Though in a grate, still the damp wind
Keeps it weak, lukewarm.

The poncho-garbed figure against the wall
Seems undisturbed by you,
Intent upon the dying flame.

You stop a moment, stooping down
To warm your hands by whatever heat
The flame has left to offer.

Looking through the grate, you see
Nothing at all; his hood is down,
Obscuring all his face.

At last, the embers
Sputter out; standing up,
You thank the man and then move on.

He neither nods nor waves,
Not even looking up to see
As you take leave of him.

What a curious man, you muse,
Splashing every other step
On your way back through the rain.

A spark in the grate fizzles as you pass from view;
You passed a dead man in the rain, but never knew.