Downpour

This two day long downpour
is loaded with recollections
of your leaving. You took your purse,
casually, as if about

to go shopping, and a travel-bag
bulging against a broken zip,
and let fall a letter
almost by accident

against the already open door.
The downpour was the heaviest
of that year, spreading sheets
across pavement, road and lawn,

drowning all noise except
the staccato rattle and click
of the door, shutting out
even your footsteps. Now rain fills

an empty cellar
where boxes of spices and books
for four days floated like
flotsam, ensuring you

wouldn't come back, that I
kept nothing important of yours.