Runoff Memory

The rain gave up, and left the street to steam.

The smell of wet concrete, a half-forgotten dream

of clean. But then, the gutter. All the stuff it caught:

a plastic bag, a crumpled ticket, cheaply bought

and then discarded. A sheen of oil, a rainbow slick,

where something toxic floats, making my stomach sick.

And there it was. A lipstick tube, bright red and snapped,

half-floating, like a secret that the water trapped.

Just broken plastic, in the slow, gray moving muck.

A piece of somebody's face, their beauty, out of luck.

Like everything that gets washed down, lost to the street,

just quiet, broken things that we won't ever meet

again. A shimmer of glass, like tiny, frozen tears.