1

the smells of Little Italy Ristorante waft throughout the air,
encircling the pavilion that spawns a boat-filled-dock background,
where the bands play, rehearsing together, their smiles singing along with the music.

but on rainy days, when the Ristorante closes, and there’s no one to walk the streets,
the backdrop of the pavilion vanishes behind a thick-grey cloud of fog,
and a lone young man plays his guitar,
the music singing in perfect harmony
with the sadness of the grey.

2

the people sit in the chairs
besides the tables set in front of stores, talking with eachother,
their smiles mirroring the joy they carry inside of them,
creating a heart-lifting setting to match the sun-shiny tone of the day.

but when the chairs are wet and unwelcoming,
no one sits in them;
the doors of shops are closed to shut out they misty-grey
and the wail of a lone guitar haunts the deserted streets.

3

there are men who spend their days on the wharf,
reeling in lines of silvery fish, laughing in each others company
in the sunny days of
summer.

but when the pier is slick with rain,
all is quiet and lonely,
save for the song of sadness the guitar sings.

4

the windows of shops shine their attractive lights,
calling out to those who pass to come
and take a look inside;
vibrant garments are strung
on clothes racks and set outside
(before the windows
where the employees
can still keep watch for thieves)
and groups of teenage girls pass by,
eying the merch through windows
seldom purchasing what they choose.

but when the streets smell fresh of rain,
every window is lost behind the veils of fog,
and no sound but the strumming of the guitar strings is heard.

5

and there is a corner, decorated in murals of graffiti,
not in the least an eyesore,
standing out from the quaint uniform looks of the surroundings,
a major attraction to the young in the field of historic buildings.
they crowd around it and marvel at the art,
adding a touch of their own to any blank spot they find.

but when the rain kisses everything,
they disappear and are replaced with the sorrowful mourn of the guitar.

6

there are the spots that the tourists come to see;
an old slave-house with the original furnishings
and a Victorian style house filled with photographs
of people who’ve died long ago.

but when the rain falls,
no tourists pass through,
and all falls still
but the strings of the guitar.

7

there are the beaches,
hidden behind rows of houses–
secluded from the prying eyes
of those who visit,
deserted and lonely,
resting in the peace of themselves,
with no more sounds than the cry of the birds.

but when the rain moistens the sand, and the birds seek shelter,
all is quiet,
save for the faint sounds of the lone guitar,
singing with the rain.

8

and there is the hospital
looming over the buildings of main street
like a parent over their child.
At night, they all come to life in a neat symmetrical line
of lighted stores and illuminated structures
that draw your eyes up until they reach
further and further into the picture.

and even when it rains at night,
the lone guitar still sings.

9

but when the sun rises,
peeking from behind the clouds,
and the birds begin to chirp their happy songs of joy,
the music takes one final breath and fades into the daylight…

…and if you look hard enough into the distance,
you can see the figure of a young man,
fading with the fog.