You have to read to the last line to get the "alone" part. It's sort of a harsh self-assessment but that was how I felt sometimes and before I knew what was going on.
The Night Rain
How quickly the night rain turns the river lonely.
The clouds move into view like a chemical
burning out the stars, searing the moon
into a milky spill that bleeds across heart-broken miles.
The lovers all at once drop each otherís delicacies
and turn for the warm acres of dark dry automobiles
as if the victims of some choreographed death march,
their young shoulders, their bare fingers buried.
Birds which floated through the lemon light
of rustic wharf lamps disappear like hunted treasures
to clandestine perches built in the cleft of angle irons
running through the distant cats-cradle bridges.
The once flat finish of the waterfront pavement
turns glossy and coins of rainbows affix themselves
to the atoms of drizzle the stubborn headlights pierce.
All things which have one, go to their smart homes.
Even the smells are subdued, the green odor
of afternoon mowing along the muscle of concrete.
The hot light scent of oil where battered cod fries
in the neon fish house, the perfume of the lady patrons
are all washed into the dancing black water.
An errant bolt of lightning moves horizontal
from west to east as if a disobedient ray of sun.
In the intoxicated shadows of the offing
none remember if there were boats to leave or not.
If there were, they are moored to their cedar nests
and weekend sailors warm their palms on coffee.
Rubber fishermen reel in empty lines
that blaze like lasers against the approaching bolts.
From the cryptic barbed hooks they see
the withered faces of their wives, hear them in the thunder
leave them on the ice of the beer cooler.
Only the fish are charmed and congenial.
They fly into the air like acrobats.
Their gills fold out like lawn chairs, becoming wings.
Supernatural and wall-eyed, they explode
into drenched upright monsters, companionless poets.
The whole world changes in a single bloom- Me in a poem