Accumulation

The neighbors dragged it to the curb

three weeks ago and let it sit,

a rusted tank, a cold disturb

of iron scale and orange grit.

Now the sky is coming down in sheets,

polishing the street with quiet lace.

It ignores the houses and the empty streets

to find this metal, ruined face.

The flakes are filling up the cracks

where the copper pipes were hacked away.

It hides the rust and hides the tracks

of everything that went to gray.

It almost looks like something soft,

a white pillow on a bed of bone.

The streetlight holds the glow aloft.

The water heater waits alone.