After the Rain Buckets

At dawn the city tilts a silver bucket, and rainwater runs down fire escapes, carrying yesterday's flyers, pollen, ash, all the small confessions of the night.

In the laundromat, drums turn like patient moons, shirts bloom and collapse behind the glass. A child presses one palm to the warm door, watching weather happen to a single sock.

Across the street, a mason lifts wet brick, lays red syllables into a future wall. Each tap of the trowel rings through puddles as if the block itself were learning breath.

By noon the clouds unzip into blue linen. Steam rises from manholes like opened letters. We walk through it, briefly translated, our names bright and temporary in the mist.