After work, I have walked out into the dark
of a wet early-winter’s evening.

Booked black cabs, in procession, roll
past with fogged up windows.

Mothers scold children
for laughing in puddles.

The multitude
moves, earthbound, for cover.

I have circled back, my arms bent
like boughs by grocery bags.

In the fenced-in park
eleven inky maples loiter.

My father taught me to lift my face
to the rain.