The Pour

They laid it out,

a grey, wet tongue

against the old curb.

Spread it thin,

with a sound like thick, wet chewing.

Two men, they pushed it,

smoothing, slow,

until the sky was there,

distorted, breathing,

on its skin.

For a moment,

it held that light,

a perfect sheet.

Then, the dulling began.

A film of cloud,

a slow forgetting.

Now it just sits.

Hardens.

Waiting for the first

shoe scuff, the first

rain-stained leaf.

Already, it looks tired.