The Gutter

After the rain, the gutter

still holds water.

There's something in it—

small, catching the light

in that strange way

broken things do.

I crouch down.

It might be jewelry.

A clasp. Part of a ring.

Metal tarnished but catching

the afternoon in pieces.

There's a cigarette butt next to it,

soggy, furred at the filter.

Someone stood here and smoked

and let something fall.

Or maybe it fell

and they didn't notice.

The water is clear enough

to see to the bottom—

dead leaves, bent paperclip,

the small broken thing

that might have been something.

I don't pick it up.

The light is moving.

In an hour the gutter

will be dry and I won't

remember exactly where,

won't be able to tell anyone:

there, something that caught

the light and was broken.