Short straws of rain clack-clack on metal ledges,
spilled, you think—yes spilled!—from panniers
of some high-riding, fog-formed bicycle.
Lean back. The air’s been sliced tonight—or spliced!—
by this winged coffee-seller’s arc. Now straws
that whirled about behind your ribs can settle,
shoulder blades release—so intimate
this constancy—this dry, uncrying sound.
It never slows. You sip your coffee. Here
are books, your little red-framed mirror, there
your pencil box, with painted deer and dolphins,
cat-clawed rug. The eye’s a mind for now.
Whichever door your other mind tap-taps—
the night the rain ballooned your bedroom ceiling,
water gushing in and plaster falling
on the cat—the street lights tell you then
and soon are only temporary homes.
The building’s sealed—then water finds a crack.
No matter. Straws of rain clack-clack tonight,
and only straws, etched silver on night’s black.