They stop beneath the eaves
To dry. The squirming rainy colors
Run red and gray, fuse in their eyes.
You could ask them for a light,
Maybe directions downtown
To the Moulin Rouge Café --
But you don't. They appear
So young, not so long ago
Your age. But how the silence stares
Back from the late afternoon traffic.
The bus is late and you go back
To your newspaper. The ink runs.