7
on
the top landing of old pebbled concrete stairs
a
steep block above the deep canal
rain
drips down the lamppost’s bronze acanthus
falls
in the wax laurel
hitting
and bending the tough ovals
lightly
bracelets with cold glass
the
shiny painted iron rail
and
washes with crooked trickles the lamp’s globe
tires
krish krish nearby krish wipers tick run tick
and
headlights sweep across the corner
searching
through rain and wrinkled birch trunks
ground
floor window ledges tattered mud
and
a man’s blue business cuffs and wet wingtip laces
I
see again the wavering inverted cities
shining
in the sidewalk triptychs of rain
the
click click of a woman’s boots
the
wind turns the stiff corner of her jacket up
and
behind her the airplane roars like an empty cross
I
have missed the flight again
