Every car parked on the street

exploded the other evening

all at once and a great gray

lake’s worth of rain fell, too.

You know there’s no remedy for what

comes next. More exploding cars.

More generations of unremembered wet lilacs

pressed deeply against your forehead.

Every magazine is immediately morbid.

Every rain is immediately over.

Every man is a very hurried young man

until he’s sitting in his car, waiting on the dark.