The downpour breaks a hot Friday,
Beating the street with a thousand
The end of a long slice through humid air.
The sidewalks surge and the professionals run for cover.
Three women in dresses peer from a vestibule.
A smartly dressed young man hunkers under a red restaurant patio umbrella.
His tie is wet and limp and clings
to his white shirt, sopped.
The streets are for fording: four inches here, eight inches there.
At a bus stop a tall woman shares her umbrella with two strangers, huddled close. She says to a man approaching with soaked hair, “I’m sorry, there’s no more room!”
On ground, the water’s business is flow, thick flow,
like the streets have a new sudden skin.
And up here everything smells like wet asphalt.
Coursing, pooling, spilling, the downpour gives this city
A good hot scrubbing.