Her bare feet slapped against the pavement.
Tulle skirt stuck to her sweaty thighs.
The first drop fell.
Rain came that day.

Arms outstretched, she started to twirl.
Until the footsteps came near.
Out of time with the thunder claps and bursts of light.
She stopped and stared.

He was there.
Drenched in the rain.
Watching.
She laughed and pulled him to dance with her.

You were in your forties then, lived upstairs with your
old man, gave the neighborhood someone to feel better
than. I was maybe nine or ten, and Franny, oh! I could
have cried when he blacked your pretty gypsy eye and
Franny, oh! my restored hope when I saw Joe, his lip laid
open; Franny, you could throw a punch. So here's to right
hooks, Franny. Here's to gin before lunch. Here's to street
smarts and cunning hearts. I didn't end up like you. I got
out of the neighborhood. I'm my own woman; that's our
slogan, but you know, Franny, sometimes even that 
makes me feel like I'm swinging my fists in a third floor flat.

I think of August:
strawberry sundae cups
and squash blossoms.

Happiness has been degraded to effort,
and depression to undecision.
In a world coming together,
We're left with ourselves as everyone else
And God, I hope the Chinese are learning.

Feelings are vibrations
Purring and winding,
Snapping with a scream
And if you listen closely
You can hear that
Indecision is silent, soft
And only different from loneliness
By its fatality.

Tomorrow she will
Strike accurate and brutal
It's the game, her rules.

Overwhelming pride
Radiates ecstatically
Towards those relieved.