and your camisole and dress hung to your body
like a sheet over an antique chair.
I looked at you from a window.
The rain fell
in what looked like lines of static
on an old film reel whose picture smears with age.
There was a slope in the sidewalk
and rain collected in a puddle at your feet.
They disappeared into the bottom of the puddle,
they made your feet look like cement blocks.
You made a face that suggested you knew what
was happening to your feet.
I was watching the rain and remembering a time on the beach.
My trunks were blue plaid. The sun was a yellow mark
hiding behind a lifeguard's chair. Mom and Dad
bought me a shovel and pail. I wanted to dig through the sand
to see dirt. I felt like a Dalmatian without spots
throwing dirt through my legs.
I dug long enough to get to the other side of the Earth,
where I could watch you stand in the rain.
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