This Time Next Year
Fifteen minutes into the rain, the papier-mâché torso
of the makeshift guerrilla statue gets soggy
and the likeness of the dissident hero
bows to every passing commuter.
We ignore the two policemen rolling
a dolly past wilted alliums. Hanging precariously from
a second-story window, a worker in an overlong blue blazer
is adding extra exclamation points
to a SOLD OUT marquee. I already know the encore.
“No more songs,” your eyelashes wave.
The first misunderstanding we didn’t have.
Though your face is much the same as last year.
The same small hands. The same gray
in the curls my eyes used to trace against
a backdrop of guards.
As the policemen roll the statue away,
the square of asphalt where it stood absorbs rainwater
for the first time.
A squad car lingers.
Red and blue droplets scatter.