I'm going out to the bar
and Jesus is coming too
just waiting for his call

when the rain picks up
and soaks right on through
to your corduroy shoulders
you sigh, smoke, and ask
for a cup of hot, dark Joe
glancing sideways at the phone

just another rainy night
Ms. Collins, off in the corner
picks an eyelash from her glass
a handful of silence between
steam-irons the damp room
the view from the sidewalk
Lord, it must be splendid

from the can, to the pan
from the pan, to the plate
jars of rain pelt the window
fat jars, thick drops
for days and days on
dead leaf rafting through gutters
look, a beetle is riding it!

Ms. Collins curls into her scarf
fixes her cellophane bonnet
ambles off into the wet night
I'm still going to the bar
Jesus hasn't called, typical
 he's off with Ms. Collins now

the rain hasn't stopped
nor the phone rung
see what I've done -- nothing