Neon After Rain

The avenue keeps a second sky in every puddle,
pink and soda-green, trembling when a bus goes by.

Shop signs bloom twice: once in the wet air,
once underfoot, as if the street had learned to dream.

A stranger’s umbrella turns, a dark planet passing.
Tires hiss. The city rinses its bright name clean.

I walk home counting colors that will not last till morning,
each one a brief, electric kindness.