On the bus back from the city I saw
a broad lady reined by overcoat
pause in the studded crowd.
Ten minutes later
I remember her, how the storm
washed the sepia sidewalk,
how all the pedestrians stopped
before the finished painting: this street
was not dark or any one color,
but a stained glass wreck
of angles and men.
I saw the truest mess soak through that street.
And now I press my brow
to my water-veiled window as this vehicle
sighs into Short Hills.
even the remotest puddle holds its pose.
The unfeeling foot hesitates
over its own reflection, then
into the black and white
photograph of this drenched town,
so false under glass.