The Gate

The wipers fight the heavy, gray-black sheet

of rain that’s drowning out the empty street.

I roll the window down and feel the spray,

a mile from the ward where the sick men stay.

The quarters rattle in the plastic tray,

until the mechanical arm swings out of the way.

A blue latex hand reaches through the mist,

with a damp ten dollars and a tensed-up wrist.

The exhaust is thick and the engine is loud,

hidden in the belly of a low, dark cloud.

He doesn't look up and I don't say a word,

just the sound of the metal that the wind has stirred.