The Intake

The gutter is a throat that can't stop swallowing.

Three days of gray rain have turned the street

into a river of runoff and regret.

I watched the neighbor’s power bill

slide off the curb and vanish

into the iron teeth of the corner.

A plastic straw is wedged in the rusted grate,

holding back a matted wig of brown leaves.

The water gurgles and chokes,

pulling everything down to the dark

where the city hides the things

we didn't mean to lose.