Sediment

                                                       SEDIMENT

   Drizzle on and off, at times a short sprinkle, about sixty to sixty-five degrees. The grey light picks up the pastels of the wooden and stucco buildings, the hushed tones of a city in a quiet, reflective mood. Fog on the coast starts to work its way in between the low clouds and the hills brushing wool, thick cotton, a few umbrellas, mufflers. The cat gone for three days comes home. Snails and slugs meander. A broker talks to his secretary over lunch and notices her personality for the first time. Neither go back to the office. She tells him of her dream of seeing Europe before she turns thirty. The alacrity, tension, vibrant colors of the town flow inwards to grey.
   An executive is washing his hands in the men's room when the Virgin Mary appears in the mirror and tells him to beware of blood red moons, the green bands of light at sunset and bad cocaine. He smiles and nods his head. Allah speaks from the mayonnaise rack at the corner grocery. The starving Buddha sits on the hot plate in the dusty room of an elderly couple. The two couples who are suing a cruise line for suffering one-hundred degree temperatures on a cruise to Mexico simultaneously pass gas in the courtroom. An old woman sets her shopping bags down around her tattered shoes, clasps the lid of a dumpster, mutters for strength and lifts it open. Inside, the Christ child coos and gurgles. She teaches him how to say bus token.
   At three-thirty in the afternoon when the first of the commuters filter into the downtown streets, water begins to flow from the gutters. The process is almost silent. The fog and low clouds mingle above the city. By four, the streets hold four inches of water and the swish of tires fills the air. By five, all the low parts of the city are submerged. Traffic has stopped. At six, the city has become a lake. The citizens strip off their clothes and paddle peacefully in the deepening waters until they tire and sink.