It's raining

and I pull out the umbrella

I just bought for eight dollars,

smaller and uglier than the one

for five but looks stronger. I

walk to the right to avoid a puddle

and a man dripping in rain calls me

a bitch for trying to avoid the same

puddle and I’m mad because I hate

that word because it says—

don’t be anything but docile and

mild and quiet, tame the wild

scream inside and I’m raging

till I look behind and see he’s

barefoot and wonder how I

missed his feet and think how

just two weeks in and already I

am going blind. Retreat behind

headphones on the subway to

avoid making eye contact with

the lady selling chocolate or

the man singing hymns off-key.

Don’t we all deserve to be

seen? I say knowing I know no

answer, and later that night

after a Guiness and a white wine

at the Irish Pub down the street,  

my daughter tells the bouncer he looks

badass in his all-black bulletproof

get-up with reflector pilot glasses,

You gotta be—in New York

at midnight and adds I’m leaving soon

before I get too hard and we

ask where and he says, Delaware,

where it’s green and quiet, and

we nod and say we see him and  

in the dark of the 14th Street

night behind thick mirror glasses

we feel the sparkle of his eyes.