Secret Vespers

It is raining and as usual you are standing in it, waiting. I don’t know why. It is a temperate rain; a body can warm what water soaks through. And you are dressed for it much better than I.

I want to give you something. A mint canister has been discarded. I pick it up and scrub it with the rain and my finger. I push its dents back out, but still you will see where it was dented. It needs to contain something, so I find a curl of hopeful red plastic. I give this to you open.

You brush a wet lock off your cheek. I raise my face into the rain. The drops are heavy now. I don’t mind closing my eyes for a moment next to you.

Next time I see you, I offer a chain of paperclips I have been lengthening for a week. When it is sunny I gather twigs and wrap them in some twine. It rains again. I am sure you are standing in it, but I must let you wait a while so I can compare pennies on the sidewalk. The shiniest was minted in nineteen eighty five. I promise you it will reflect a disk of light onto your palm once the rain clears way.