Analysis

It was morning that day.
Showers and showers,
yet I was not in them.
Every drop licked my window
like the metronome John Feitor used
during every recording.
Squawking brass,
hooting woodwinds;
Aren't we all just a bunch of birds?
As Koch once said,
"My head is a bird, my stomach a pig"
Four compartments of myself.
One for love, which is kept tidy
for my latino cafe.
One is for anger, built into me
as a young shrimp.
Another for talent, that I use,
that I expand.
And the last for isolation,
for the closer I get,
the farther back everyone falls,
like raindrops on my window
that morning, that day.