weather poem part 12: a dream

Everyone mentions the weather, grey and faceless; searching for the shrink's office, he knows without looking that it has passed nine, and though his appointment was made for eight he muses that they might forgive when he arrives. Walking off an unnamed highway exit he stops to ask for directions, unfazed that his car has disappeared. And the only soul to ask is a dingy old woman wielding a metal mallet, which she lays on the ground with a muffled word: you got to squeeze all the beauty you can outta this life 'cause it ain't comin' back.