Surface Tension

The landlord sent the letter on a Friday afternoon.

Another hundred dollars just to keep the leaking roof.

I walked home through the drizzle, under a heavy moon,

looking for a sign or just a bit of solid proof.

In the gutter by the curb, a rainbow started to bloom,

spilling out in violets from a rusted-out sedan.

It slicked across a lottery ticket headed for its doom,

shimmering like a promise or a very desperate plan.

It’s beautiful for garbage, the way the gold and green

swirl around the tire marks and the grit of city sand.

A little bit of poison to make the sidewalk clean,

sliding through the water like it’s slipping from my hand.