In Rockefeller

I can’t see the ground around me just
umbrellas overlapping in the rain
everywhere as people stand.
(I don’t own one—
with which to overlap or to be overlapped.
The wet always comes in anyway.
Not with two?
But, surely, the wind…)

The rain falls in sheets
like summer lined-laundry
and I can only think of ruined
picnics; Cental Park certainly deserted—
sinking ground, soaked benches.
The rain makes me mean but only
to hide the dreary
and for a moment, I’m pleased (cold).

The pouring on the store-front
makes me want a house with a porch,
remote, not so many umbrellas.
I mouth without even knowing,
Please don’t let me end up here.