After the Rain, Before the Quiet

Water lapped slow beneath the curb,

rust curled around crumpled packs,

leaves clung like forgotten thoughts,

smothered in mud.

The gutter brimmed with all the leftover noise—

the storm’s tired breath,

the city’s grime, the breath

of wet asphalt and cold sky.

A paper cup floated by,

half-sunk, ragged-edged,

a boat I never meant to launch,

headed nowhere but down.