45, Ark Street

A lamplighter whistles in the street
grinning at a half-done day

Clouds speak in strong brogues
and hail begins to hobble down her way

Where the lintel meets the corner of her room
pockets bend and bow, as rivers run along

Brown, tea-stained water fills the mugs
and tributary cups they run into

She delights at wet shelves and receipts
even as the bedsheets soak right through:

Every spoon's a suitor in the sagging drawer
entreating laughter with their ribald songs.