I walked a broken-headed man
toward a corner where
he thought he roomed. Brick

dark with rain—what city
was this? Spring
said little—one brave blood

geranium shivered in its urn
by a black wire weave,
his door. I left him there—

sure he’d get the code, work
the lift or take the stair,
find his floor, the key…

I walked off in drizzle, had to
make that call, never
mind the broken things in me.