the city

Slowly, she walks through the
pounding rain
howling wind...
"God, where are you
Has he gone mad?
Or have her prayers been answered...
... by me?

I walk as she does,
slowly, carefully, with a grace unintended.
She keeps her head down, her coat tight about her,
and her purse near her body.
As careful as she is,
she cannot hide from the darkness that still cradles her,
the darkness of both the early morning hours,
and the city beneath her feet.

A houligan of the streets attempts her,
and he is struck down easily by my unseen hand.

She, paralyzed by fear and confusion,
wonders what happened to the man.
She wonders why she is not wrenching from his grasp,
why she is not the target of his rage.
And she wonders why she does not not lie beneath his heavy weight,
his sweaty brow,
with his weapon of chioce violating her deeper than anyone could know.
She wonders, and realizes she is none of those things.
She thinks, she is now the powerful one,
he is to be the target now.

She kicks him once, but once is enough there.
She looks around, and does not see me.
The payphone calls to her, and she calls with it.

I can see the flashing lights of red and blue
flashing against her silhouette as she walks home.
The man groans as the police 'help' him up.
A smile crosses her face as she croses the wet street.

The elevator dings for her ears alone, and the doors part.
Her keys,
cold and wet from the rain,
jingle as she turns the lock.
Her small home is dark, and there is no red light on the answering machine.

Still cold from the walk, she draws the quilt nearer,
and curls up in the dark bedroom.
She still does not see me, but she knows I'm here.
As the drug of sleep takes hold,
she sluggishly murmurs, "thank you..."

The dawn over a wet city is a sight I shall never tire of.
This is all mine,
every dirty corner,
every cab, every corrupt executive, every lonely heart,
and that girl on the seventh floor.
Very few know I'm real, and fewer are alive still...