Rainbow in the Sewer

The storm has left a film upon the street,

a greasy skin that catches all the light.

It’s gathered where the curb and concrete meet

and makes the dirty gutter look almost bright.

I find a pigeon feather in the drain,

its barbs are matted with a motor oil.

It’s shimmering with colors born of pain

and pulled from deep within the city soil.

It rests against a wet and crushed-up pack,

a ghost of blue and violet and green.

It’s beautiful because the world is black

and messy and a little bit unclean.

I leave it there to sink into the dark,

a bit of oil that tried to be a gem.

The concrete carries every single mark

until the water washes over them.