Downpipe

The rain has stopped. Seven millimetres, the gauge will say: a whole wet Saturday written down that small.

Nothing falls now. Still the downpipe by the tram stop keeps on talking, working through what the roof collected at its own pace, in its own order.

The sun went at twenty-one past six, two minutes sooner than last night, behind cloud, so nobody saw it go. The street lamps took it on trust.

A man shakes his umbrella twice and holds it open anyway, not quite believing. The pipe is still telling him.

Long after the sky is done the roof goes on giving it back, a little at a time, to the drain, as if that were the job all along.