Drainage

The street was slick,

a sudden sheet of water

pooling at the curb.

A quick,

cold splash.

No quarter.

The gutter,

a small, dark river,

slowly gave its yield.

A plastic wrapper,

a broken sliver

of something from the field.

Cigarette butts, soft and grey,

swirled in a slow, tired eddy.

A bus ticket,

washed away,

translucent, ready

to cling and stick it

to the rough stone.

Its ink bled thin,

a ghost of route and fare.

It moved alone,

then snagged again.

Just sitting there.