Murders are as usual for the time of year,
although no sun to speak of. Weekends are heated.
We survive in the deluge, drink and dance, spending
fast as we pump it up, pump-pump, pump-pump.
Black cars nose through the suburbs,
slash torrential roads, four heads or five,
close-cut, pit-vipers, strong, stronger, strongest,
Every house an ark where the kids
shoot up, two by two,
share glittering spoons.
Noah and Mrs. Noah are long gone.
Rain continues to fall.
Murders are as usual for the time of year.