It doesn’t matter what I’m listening to as I pull
over to the wrong side of the wet road
to better listen before parking underground.
Radio shot when you walk by—
under an umbrella, your solid hand
on the back of a coat—blue raincoat—
your solid hand in the middle of her back
moving her forward, your long back to me.
I feel the thick of my stomach
curdle brick, holding me there, here,
dry anchor, doppelgänger, seen through
rain’s veil. Post funeral. Your life without me.