The rain in New York City tonight is a curtain call none of the harlequins are heeding. Four in an alleyway play catch with a rusty switchblade and two more inside a deli, buy the cheapest beer they can find because they like the taste.

Across the street a transgendered punk rock wannabe is arguing with the bartender over the ethics of a vintage fur hat, while the old men outside the gyro shop smoke Croatian cigarettes that their families send in the mail and tell each other the same stories from back home. Wars and drink, families and love. The stories are worn around the edges, dog-eared with telltale stains of brown truth on the pure white pages of lies.

And still, down comes the rain like an argument and I stand in the doorway of my building, pain cutting almost through the whiskey, and wishing for a cigarette. If I could hold it dry for long enough, I could light it off the lightning flashes. Years ago, well just the one she was inside of, I could have held that Marlboro to my chest or her chest and lit it that way like the dashboard lighter of my mother’s Buick Skylark.

“It handle’s like a fuckin boat.”

But she’s gone. So’s the Buick. What the fuck was I talking about again? Oh that’s right. The rain, the rain and its Morse Code tattoo that beats at a pace too fast for these poor ears. The message is for somebody else tonight.