Imagine a young man, alone, without anyone.
The moment a few raindrops streaked his glass
he began to scribble.
He lived in a tenement with mice for company.
I loved his bravery.
Someone else a few doors down
played Segovia records all day.
He never left his room, and no one could blame him.
At night he could hear the other's
typewriter going, and feel comforted.
Literature and music.
Everyone dreaming of Spanish horsemen
and courtyards.
Processions, ceremony, and
resplendance.
Aspen trees.
Days of rain and high water.
Leaves hammered into the ground finally.
In my heart, the plot of earth
that the storm lights.
-Raymond Carver-
