On the Scott St. overpass, on the east-
side parapet, a rainbow touches down
on the woman walking in her thrift-
store dress and streaming hair. There
she stands at the pot-of-gold end
of the rainbow. I wonder if her shoes
are suddenly so heavy with coins,
she’ll have to lay her parcels down
on wet pavement and pour gold
into her grocery bags. I wonder
if she knows she’s wearing a rainbow,
her gray dress washed with it,
her drenched hair flashing rosy
amber. But I expect she’s too close
to feel the colors on her skin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem