by C.E.Chaffin

The sky is plum-dark,
violet against the black-forked elms.
It’s raining. Eyes wide
I imagine stars, see only
afterflashes.
                   Some faint light
leaks through this inky night
but won't be pinned in silver.
Don't bother to look for Venus.
Last night Mars was clear
as a cigarette and she laughed.

The rain has quit.
I hear the tap, tap of water
on brittle leaf-tents.
Tonight she said, weeping,
"You don't have to stay up with me."
She says “have to” too much,
why I'm taking this walk.

 
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