What Survives the Rain

The chalk grid was mostly gone. The rain

had come through overnight—all but

one square, still pink. The plain

luck of an overhang. I cut

around the edge and kept on going.

Then stopped. Turned back. The crowd

went past. The morning was flowing

in its usual way. Out loud

I didn't say anything. Just stood

looking at one pink square.

The number four. Or seven. Good

enough to read. The bare

gray everywhere around it.

I was late for something real.

I know I was. I found it

easier to stand still

than to explain why.

I turned and walked.

I know I did.