The rain washes everything away
except for the tins,
now empty but once full of drunken dreams
grey streets splashed with their colourful names,
sun glinting off aluminium rings and a bird sits on
the branch of a dead tree and sings like only a
a tin can
an old man listens,
light sparkles off the oily drain
something else the rain
didn’t wash away.
© 2020, John Smallshaw.