The City
soggy with joy
hailed my return by halting everyone
at JFK
Better than a ticker-tape parade
I got
a two hour wash-and-wait on the tarmac
a hundred feet short of Gate 8
Then, I got
The City
gussied up wet at sunset
The shiny grit of Manhattan
pierced, dark, covered
After all, she’s an island in a squall
Wet leather Gothic
New York in late summer
is a woman just the other side of full flower
the moist ache of passing rain
that used to pound and bounce.
In August
the wet parts roll off
too-heavy petals
gathering speed
to Fall
in the City
