Sometimes The Rain

Sometimes the rain

is an ovation:

a sudden

burst of rapture

that stomps its feet

and cheers my name

like I’m Judy

walking the plank of Carnegie Hall.

Sometimes the rain

is a sonata,

heartbeats

played on a Steinway.

Sometimes it’s jazz,

improvised

lonely as a solo.

Sometimes the rain

is the city

brought to its knees.

Cars chug.

Awnings become wartime umbrellas.

Windows mist.

Rooftops bathe.

Someone screams.

Someone remembers.

Someone whispers a name out loud

while I wait,

like the rest of the world,

for the storm to pass.