Raining isn't rain; it's more the
death of tears, the cleanse of water,
the Nike run of soft shoes down a
liquid stairwell. I can't speak for
others - though I will and do - to
no avail. It's more a shoulder shrug
to a vapid life. I go outside. The rain
is on things : I read of the tavern-owner
who died in Red Hook, of the famous guy
who is squandering millions. And then I
see this sorrowful lady, coming up the street.
She wails and she cries out loud. I guess those
are real tears down her face, not rain.