The Corner Drain

After the rain,

the grate was jammed—

leaves in a stain,

and a glove, caught, damned

between the bars.

I stood there too long.

Pink, or the dark scars

of weather. All wrong.

A child's hand wore that.

A child walked home

without it. The flat

street, the chrome

of the drain, the things

that go down and don't come back.

I've stood here. It brings

something I lack—

the proof that we lose

small things and never

find them. I choose

to remember her,

whoever she was,

whoever lost it,

whatever the cause

that brought her to this.

The glove stays.

The drain stays.

The small forgetting.