Jack Freeman

Toward the beheaded cathedral spire
do all orient. Nurses in blue

hoopskirts pulling a cart to
the market two streets down. The tiles

that slid off the hostel roof early
this morning. An emergency

vehicle so far away. Finally, the clouds
arrive in line. A government minister

preaches over the radio. At last
the rain arrives, its face unfamiliar

to the brothers playing football on the bridge
over the overflowing creek. It was then

the old pianist placed his fingers
on the keys and accompanied the rain,

his song drowned out by the traffic
on the boulevard two stories below.

Jack Freeman’s work has recently appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, Bop Dead City, HOUSEGUEST, and elsewhere. He lives in Dallas.