Dusk

The smell of rain
her hair
gunpowder
The smell may change
as he sits on his stoop
the streetlights blinking
into and out of sync
sinking, sinking
as he reads the paper.

The day ages, inches
towards sunset
painting his tenement
technicolor.
Seven ways to midnight
it's green tonight
right in the middle
no rainbow too big or too small
to fit in his old pipe.