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Watching the Rain Dance 

Storm and coffee brew while I watch clouds. 
Where when younger there might've been dragons 
or castles or even the face of one I could love, 
Merrill Lynch's bull grazes among dandelion puffs
of ebusiness websites and piles of multinational
corporate logos, all the faded colors of nations
present, causes past spotted with that ubiquitous 
shade of brown often found on public school play
grounds, city streets, and other killing fields.  
Distant thunder indistinctly rumbles with Muzak.
Clouds merge and break apart until unrecognizable,
yet neon still flashes where they bump together.
Rhinestone drops begin to fall reflecting green
the shade of old park statues and lost pennies.
Some don trousseaus and lingerie woven of words
--fastened by underlying thoughts and feelings 
nearly impossible to open--rush into the downpour
for a pay-per-view dannce among discarded Cadillacs 
and wrecked Accords, Barbies and Gameboys, cellular 
phones and laptops and dildos, fast food wrappers 
and doggy bags from Trader Vic's, coffee stained
stock certificates and corroded capped off oil rigs.
Couples seem to join and break apart and regroup
among the puddles of tarnished silver, tainted gold 
yet everyone really dances alone; it's the same music 
but each only knows their individual orchestrations.
Can't deny I also hear the tune, but have no sense
of rhythm and, quite possibly, even less of soul. 

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