The concrete still damp

The concrete still damp,

holding the last sheen of the squall.

It wasn't a downpour, just

enough to make things slide.

A sun, fat and yellow,

a child's fierce joy in a circle,

one half gone, bleeding

a pale ochre river

down the slight slope,

into a drain I didn't see.

And a stick figure,

a smile like a stretched rubber band,

one leg fading

into gray sludge.

Like a memory that decides

it's done holding on.

Makes you wonder what else

is dissolving, just

out of sight.