The wind turns northeast
The first October day,
When a squall
Blows down Erie,
Battering boats
And belting cars,
Blowing umbrellas inside out
With wind lifting skirts
As too busy people
Rush along Jackson
To whistles and hustlers
And high Commerce.
I perch like a principality
In the long avenue
Falling in shadow
From the 59th floor.
The rain blows sideways,
The lake disappears
In a wall of gray.
I'm a cat licking it's claws.
I wonder of the frivolity
Of everything else.