The roof is still leaking.
Outside, an inexplicable
motorcycle riff cuts across
wet winter night noise
while the calculator waits
behind the dryer beside January
Christmas basement boxes.
Yesterday, it rained before it rained
all day today while he said, “Magellan.”
“Ponce de Leon is my favorite
explorer, but I like the way it sounds:
Magellan.” He said it again and
again in the car during a downpour.
“Magellan, Magellan, Magellan,”
until the baby, too, like a torrent.
We never discovered an umbrella.