the air smells of rain
and is a perfect grey

the sad old buildings
lean against it

a beauty
you would have to see
to understand

today my sadness
is bigger than Jesus
but there is a joy
even in this

a quiet bar on Polk Street
something to drink
and a table by the window

the people seem
to have places
to go

the cars
roll up and down

lights flash
green and red

and I could never find it
in myself
to strive for more than this

never dreaming
to be anything

other than the sky
or the smell of rain.

— William B. Taylor, Jr., American Poet based in San Francisco.