Another deluge on the edge
of the millennium.

Elsewhere, the world is a universal brown and the
drowsy citizens crowd for warmth into the tiny rooms
of quite large houses. Here, thousands of tiny
sprinklers souse the medians and shoulders of shrub-
lined streets, late at night, when the condos sleep.

Some, though, are forever embarking
on arduous night journeys, with small hope
of a quick return. Heading home one evening, just
before dawn, I passed sprinklers going full-tilt
in a tropical rain-storm. I knew
how they felt.

Another night, I was brazenly
groped from be-
hind; I
thought, This
could be it. Afterwards, I couldn't shake a
sort of putrid taste, not entirely dis-
agreeable.

The invitation had read: Come over early
and I'll tell you the story of my life, with
a demonstration to follow.

There are times
when one seems driven
like the rain. Hopeless
cases, most of them. They called it
love.