Flood waters pour
down the grand boulevard.
At night the rain keeps
falling and falling.
I exit the neo-classical portico,
stopping on the stoop
over the brimming street,
unwilling to wade
through night water.
I rest my case
on the marble newel,
awaiting a witness.
The trees' leaves eat
the plaintive moonlight
and I am a shadow
stone-still on the stair
awaiting a witness.
The dark rain falls.
My shoes are dry,
my case packed tight,
marooned at the portico
hour after hour.
A witness is coming
down the grand boulevard
on flood waters pouring
into the clearing.
And we will be washed
with a flurry of leavings
over slick bitumen
and the drenched beds of rivers
down to the waiting sea.
