It is the gloaming in steady rain
striking the windshield, windows,
that metallic sound of rain
hitting the car’s roof,
fog rising in random valleys.
Sense the constancy of beauty,
take a bill out of my mailbox
that provides no gloaming,
nothing haunting, no fog
letting me wonder where I am, might be.
I will pay the bill tomorrow.
This evening’s beauty, this
will not leave, this sense of being
given what I can never pay for.
-Byron Hoot
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