The wind slithers through the leaves

 turning up the silver undersides

clearing way for the rain beat parade;

 each gust greets me with a flustered schedule of hello and goodbye.

 The anticipation eases with the tumbling street shadows in shades of grey

as my march meanders through the puddles; stagnate with relief.

Will you ever ask me?

 Ask me where I’m going?

 I was never one to correctly fold the map; I can’t coordinate those lines,

there has to be latitude, a range,

 a matter of degree in correlation,

 an interpretation of the hemispheres moving between waves.

Tempting to follow the dashed treasure trails - - - - -

 or the director's X marked on the set of a martini shot dream.

Will you toss to me your imperceptible compass rose?

Toss it to me.

Please.