This day is a pothole in the rain
bubbling over the lip,
sputtering out brown liquid,
descending into the sewer
and starting all over again—
while the colors of the street rag
run into us, slurring slogans
and muttering mayhem
of a mail truck turning wide.
We stand at the corner
and take it. This day, the next,
and all that follow. We stand
at the corner and take it,
waiting for a light
at the mercy of traffic,
stuck several blocks back—
because the intersection
is flooded at the bottom
of the hill we descended.
There is no way back except
to wait out the rain.

written on 03/10/2011 by: Matt Kane