Rewind the grey dots on the pavement.
Drop them up into the sky,
Higher, higher to their pinprick
pockets in the clouds.
Pockets where, for a brief moment,
the light peaks through the grey
undersky—a split-second split for spilt light to slice through.
Rewind the grey dots to take their places in the sky
so they can feel the sun again
and dissipate blissful into the
I like the days when it rains
and the road becomes
a rough-hewn mirror
of murky forms,
shadows al fresco
in pitch-colored relief.
Another me matches step
sole for sole down the pavement partly
obscured under puddles,
so close that the rubber
on the bottom of our shoes scrape.
But I lose him in the gutter
when the sun pears through the curtain clouds.
And now the street is golden,
studded with orange traffic
cones glistening proudly with sunlight.
The trees and grass perk up, though
it’s hard for them, so
inebriated and swollen with water.
They turn their sodden selves skyward,
in their mid-day gluttony.
The clouds roll on and the trees
and I turn our attention back to
the rain and the road
which once again forms
a rough-hewn mirror.
I paused on the front steps and
tilted my head to the sky to remember
the feeling of rain on my face and flipflops.
I listened—only quiet—and breathed
in the damp fresh air.
Then I shivered and went
inside my apartment with