Classical Station

This is not an afternoon for Copeland.
Copeland sweeps and stretches across
the breadth of vistas.
There are no vistas.

There is no reach, no expanse.
It all stops here at this
red light/green light.

The gray and damp mock Copeland
as I turn away from the
tap
tap
on my window.
A man with a wooden leg
God Blesses me as makes his way down the row.

Thank you,
bleak,
knowing,
weeping Jesus,
for the dirge.

It breaks this seemingly interminable move toward cheer
and brings me back to the back and forth
of windshield wipers that have no
business trying to break the pattern of this mist,
a mist that is doing all it can to keep up with maudlin Monday.