The Detective
.
He had been sitting outside
the rundown godless block
of flats for almost a day,
when it began to rain.
It was not Mary Oliver’s
speaking rain or the drum
of Philip Levine’s rain;
nor was it the furious rain
of Anne Sexton or the thick,
mean rain of Charles Bukowski:
By the time he decided it was
Longfellow’s rain, it was
pouring, and as he watched
the buildings melt into the
windshield, a tilted blue
umbrella pulled a woman
across the street into the
arms of a man beneath
a large white umbrella,
where they kissed, and the
man inside the car lifted
his camera.
