The first rain came, mid-June,
whipping hail-stones and wind and pure water.
We ran, shouting curses, screaming at
the sky for aiming perfect balls of ice at
our bare cheeks and hands,
praying our books on our backs
hadn’t yet cried tears of ink,
all at once.
Later, while the clouds had taken a break,
but still adamantly refused to let the sunlight enter,
we sat amidst traffic and blew on our wet strands of hair,
drawing on the window, now white with hot breath.
as the horns and splashing puddles began
composing their next song,
I saw a man through the misted glass.
Old he was, and frail too, his skin browner under the grey light.
He held a bag under one arm, and picked up
his nearly worn out slippers in his other.
He climbed onto a strip of concrete
and clung to the mesh fence
with what fingers of bone remained.
Slowly, he crept over the cracks and the stones,
until he went out of my eyesight,
not once allowing the sinned waters