Specular rain washes the profiles,
charcoal and slate.
The gardener cuts weeds
from ruptures in the sidewalk. Her hair
pulled into a mask of determination,
in itself insufficient, a woman
crosses to avoid the dogs.
A gate clanks. Last night,
a gathering I thought political
was a revival.
My angel spoke
with the attendant
about traffic. So many arrived
so quickly. Andante of china
and glassware, amplified voices.
The denuded avenue buckles.
Intermittent clatter,
barking that freezes the heart.

Donald Wellman | Mudlark No. 34
Contents | “Amphibious morning ...”