The window is cold with tropical rain.
The leaves of palm trees are scratching at its glass.
Outside birds are hiding in their nests.
Floridian crocodiles are peeking their big eyes up through swampy water.
Turtles are hiding under the dock.
Cars are zooming on the highway, ignoring all but the radio.
The ocean is angry.
It’s sending grey waves with tints of green to crash against pale sand
and drag it’s heavy fingers through mounds of seaweed and garbage.
Cigarette butts are drowning.
Heavy winds are sending the pine needles soaring like Seminole spears through the air.
Everybody’s suburban driveway is flooded with a stream of dirty rainwater.
Ducks have begun to swim in the small lakes that were once people’s front yards.
Miami apartment owners are cursing the sun right now.
And a man behind the register of a gas station is hoping that those thugs keep their distance.
The Zoo is closing, and large Cuban families are mumbling old, Spanish profanities under their breaths as they are evicted.
Beggars on the high way wave signs up into the sky with their grey, long sleeve shirts that say
“Will work for food”
“Trabajará para la comida”
Fishermen are winding in their catches, and quickly searching for some shore some where.
A Haitian woman loses signal from a phone call to her younger brother.
She starts crying.
An old man refuses to leave his bench on the bus stop even though the newspaper over his head is now running ink down his face.
The bus is turning through puddles to get to him.
When it rains here, in my oceanic concrete jungle,
and with every fast pacing drop
another hair of sanity falls onto a cosmopolitan floor.