The gray-haired woman
is inflamed. Someone has taken
her umbrella. Her daughter fumes.
"What kind of a place is this,
where someone would steal
an umbrella?"
The rain fizzled out
a good half-hour ago, just around the time
you said you'd be here.
The women stalk past, sleek black trenches
with billowing capes.
From under my veil of hasty morning hair
I try a crooked smile,
and wonder if you're coming.
photograph by Ana Kras
