From Mrs. Carlisle's window I can see
across the jumbled roofs and tree-tops, all
the way downtown. South Street I cannot see,
and yet I know on my back stoop the rain
is watering the pink geranium
I bought on Saturday, and pouring down
the walk and underneath the alley gate
to where the row of beat-up trash cans shine
like baptized sinners standing in the river.
But I must get to Mrs. Carlisle now.
She's waiting for her breakfast, gazing toward
the light, although she hasn't sight for more
than shapes-the dark that's me against the panes,
but not this view of Monday morning rain.