This early evening rain reminds me
of the flautist beneath the streets
of Chicago, breathing a wage.
And how each tumbling sorrow,
each love slaughtered for the sake
of music meanders in the tubes
between silence and Jackson.
Wandering, it carries us weightless
to our trains as the trembling
leaves, as the doors slide shut —
as the leaves, now trembled
beneath a press of rain must
bow, buckle and strain, if only
to shake loose from their loads.
Published: Atlanta Review, Fall/Winter 2021