Evening stoops under its sodden shawl.
A siren broods; its caterwaul
snarling over blackened roofs.
Someone’s on the run.
Wet tires whisper to Avenue C.
“I’m lost without you,” they swear.

I wanted to be a matador
in Manhattan, dancing with horns.
I wanted to be a genie
smoking in your coat of arms.
While you gave the raindrops names,
I made up a little song called

“You’ll never be happier
than when I was a string on your harp.”