by Stanley Plumly

Like a light coastal rain, with its sadness,
the windshield spotted with it, wiped away,
the wipers like a metronome, an hour maybe,
my sister and I waiting in the truck, the motor
running to keep us company, and night coming
on at any minute … He’d say he’d be a minute,
and knowing was enough, the streetlights already
bright among the black slick coiling of the air
and the counting of headlights passing through
the cab and the wet singing of the tires against
the wetter pavement—and what else?—people
on the street, sometimes looking in or looking
straight ahead, red neon signing on, signing off,
the great evening all around us darker, tighter.

Published on January 31, 2020