What the Drain Held

The first real rain came and went by three.

I walked home the same way I always go

and slowed without meaning to at the corner —

something in the gutter down below.

A drawing. Child's. Pressed flat against the grate

by the weight of all the water passing through.

The crayon purple, going soft and pale,

a shape that might have been a house. Or you —

someone. A figure. Hard to say which.

The colors bled until they weren't quite there.

I stood too long. Two people passed behind me.

I felt how long the pause was. I was aware.

I walked the rest of the way home. I keep

thinking about the shape. The purple made

something of the gutter — a house, a person,

possibly neither. The way I stayed.