What Stays

The rain won't stop

and I've been watching the gutter

since yesterday morning—

how it fills with everything:

leaves that turned brown before they fell,

a plastic bag someone's child

probably let go of on purpose.

There's a receipt caught in the downspout,

ink bleeding into blue lines,

some grocery transaction

from a store I don't go to anymore.

I recognize this feeling—

the way the water moves around it

but can't push it through,

how it just stays there,

part of the debris now,

part of what accumulates

when you don't go outside

to clear things away.

My neighbor walked past

in yesterday's rain, purposeful,

and I thought about calling out,

about pretending I needed something,

but the window was closed

and my voice doesn't carry anyway.

The receipt is still there.

I checked five minutes ago.

It's darker now, the numbers gone,

just a wet gray thing

that won't dissolve.