bryant park

when it rained, i would sit 
beneath the big park tent 
with all the waiting people.
it was a soup-ladle summer. i loved
being a fleck of dust beneath
the city's shoe. i walked the avenue 
of the americas, trying to save
the few subway dollars it would take
to get me to work. 
my mom used to tell me 
that purgatory was like
waiting outside in the rain. 
on some mornings, this felt true.
i was always looking for a seat
on the parks metal folding chairs.
children with their fists in their mouths.
a man with all his life in two bags
he was sleeping on. then, me, 
trying to connect to the clunky 
park wifi to write a few tired poems. 
on other days though 
the rain made the place feel enchanted.
we were not waiting for anything.
instead, we were thick & full. water washing
the sidewalk & the storefronts. 
i loved when it fell soft. almost 
just a mist. i imagined not 
showing up at the big monster building. 
not stepping across the shining floors. 
getting drenched in the hot rain
with some children who,
free of school, made the park bigger. 
i never let myself do that. instead,
i watched as others did. i wore 
button-up shirts back then &
belts & pants. i was buckled into myself. 
i want to go back on 
a thunderous morning. pretend i am
on my way to feed a dragon again. 
stand on the sleepy grass. get soaked
to the bone, waiting for nothing.