A scrap of wet toilet paper clung to the Prada loafer,
a white, shivering flag of surrender.
It looked like a moth that had given up on the light
and decided to embrace the sidewalk.
The man walked through the rain with a focused sneer,
unaware of the translucent parasite on his heel.
Beside him, a puddle of gasoline shimmered,
painting the asphalt in oil-slick rainbows.
I watched him go, my own shoes leaking at the seams,
smelling of wet cardboard and cheap gin,
while the little paper ghost waved goodbye
to a city that never asked for its name.