Nine O’clock
The lingering traces of twilight,
Now blotted by hasty clouds shielding
The city from plummeting stars.

Nine O’clock
The man comes in, weary
Wind battered and embraced by rain.
Just him and his crooked umbrella

Nine O’clock
He comes in and sits down,
Taking a table by the door,
Remains of falling orbs gathering
Together in the storm.

“You can take another,” I say,
Gesturing absentmindedly
To the forest of shelters by the door,
And his torn and brittle umbrella.



“It was my fathers before it was mine.
For every fist and foot I took,
Every cough and sneeze that tore his lungs,
It has shielded us from every drop
God released for us,
And a thousand drops more.”

Nine O’clock
I saw my grandfather,
Rain pummeled, and ashy wisps
Framing his smile-pocked face.

Nine o’ one
I walked to the rain-streaked door
Reached into the cluster,
And out into the tears of God
I stood alone
With our crooked umbrella.