The pedestrians walk, head burdened
with three-second diamond crowns. Such is
the making of short-lived Kings and Queens here.
Some days, I am a Queen, too. Other days
a newborn, Christened
by the sky and earth’s water gun fight.
As grey days descend, the townfolks keep
the leaves’ cold lovers nested on their scalps,
then down those glass-cased pills,
Fallen letters write poetry on
umbrellas and etch Braille on plastic bags.
People slip on the slick alphabet
on pavements and mud-made beds.
This week’s forecast is another happy one:
more rain to come.