The constant rhythm of raindrops
On glass, coupled with window-wipers
Set to a regular speed during an
Irregular night become comrades
During his usual beat.

The creeping lights overhead glance
Impolitely through cavernous streets
As fingernails of water run through his
Fettered locks. One drop at a time
Losing its grip and falling unto eyelids
Clasped tight.

He swallows his pride and fears like
So many bottles laid out in rows across
City streets. An homage to the dead
Laying under dirt and calloused feet.
All is still.

He opens his door into pouring
Torrents, meager attempts at
Drowning what he once knew as
Himself. With a flip of a one-sided coin
It is decided. The pot calling the kettle,
"It is all in fine fettle."