sound of a car driving through the wind-swept rain
like the sound of a wave, building toward the shore
but there is no crash, no breaking of the wave
just the sound of a car growing fainter
(shrinking fainter?)
as it moves farther from my window
when i drove, i never thought about
who might be hearing my tires on the street
when i drove in the rain at night i never
pictured someone sitting inside a room,
by a window, listening intently and
picturing me
but now in a room i wonder
who is driving and what kind of car
and whether the radio is on or a tape
or maybe nothing, just the sound of
windshield wipers squeaking against the glass
leaving that half-moon of untouched drops
along the bottom of the window
a brief symphony of car horns
muted because i am so many stories above them
each a story someone knows but not i,
they are not mine to tell
this dark and stormy real-life night
as the cars move in a synchronized dance
on the street so far below