Mango Rain

Under a gray soaked sky, the pavement cracked

and pushed up gold that no one touched —

mango flesh bleeding from thin concrete wounds,

nectar pooling between the cracks, slick as city grime.

I scroll past strangers’ photos like they’re proof

that somewhere else, the air smells different —

tender and wet with heat and the sharp pulse of crowded streets,

not the must and muffled glass of my tired room.

Somewhere, they hold their umbrellas

like tired flags, patching bursts of sun and storm.

The rain pulls the street down slowly, dripping

into the empty gutters where I can only imagine.

I have never been, but I breathe in each flicker —

sweet rot, wet dust, the heavy ripeness

of a place I know only in glimpses

and a mango leaking between rain and sidewalk.