Poem: "A Statement Without Response"

May I inveigle you here by a streetlamp
While the trickels of rain travel
Down your face and soak
Into your shawl of paper-thin wool?

Her shadow mirrored her stone-still presence
As I told just what was at hand
"A devastating mishap", I lent her these words
"Those feckless, young cretins to blame."

For you may not know, I will tell you our foe
Is not one ought to be saught.
The great Puddle Possie we crisen them
A disease which preys on us all.

They are the puddles, and we the rain
For we are the ones
Who are moving still
Closer to the drain.

The gutter is where we transform
From earthly elixer to slime.
We all get drawn in eventually
Unless found useful in Life.

"Another, tonight, slain",
I whisper this in the rain.
"Her blood drips there," (I point)
"In the gutter at your feet."

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So, here's the synopsis of the poem: I, the narrator, am talking with you, the reader, at dark in the rain. (Hence the streetlamp and water-soaking wool shawl.) I am telling you a story of a woman and I holding a secret meeting. I obviously refer to a gang, the Puddle Possie, and I suggest that they have done something horrendous. Then I come back to you, telling the history of the story and how scum like the aforementioned gang come to be. But at the end, I am not addressing the reader or the woman seperately. I address them both at the same time, because you, the reader, have become the woman I have been speaking of. And I have killed you next to the gutter. I am a "Puddle" after all.