Nothing says solitude than a dark late afternoon with rain knocking at your window with bored fingers hoping you will smile with surprise.

I was a little boy looking through
the glass window of my room
as the rain washed the street
wishing I had a friend;
the room was kind of cold,
a reflexion of the outside storm,
the absence of the sun painting all
with darker shades of gray.

Wet fingers tapered on the glass
leaving behind traveling drops,
bringing from an angel a message
so the rain will have something to say;
on the window's sill, a one eye bear
with sad expectancy looking up,
and in a corner flying to nowhere
with a broken wing was a little plane.

Trying to tap dance with the rain
somewhere was a Grandfather's clock,
disturbing frustrated prayers saying
"try again"..."try again"..."try again"
The wind stopped and so did the rain,
leaving a shining wet and empty world,
to a solitary little boy by the window
that wished...he had a friend.


From the book:
"Image of a sad man in a broken mirror"