Sunday Afternoon

for donald justice Beyond the strings of water clinging to the windowpane, there were no cranes, just rain, a sky blurred by wet glass, a pond corrugated by raindrops, and, inside, the smell of naphthalene bars, a Victrola with a broken arm, a spotty daguerreotype, a dusty crinoline— O mildewed, seersucker suits draped over vacant chairs.