To E.B. White

Rain on Park Avenue
South, I walk the boulevard
strip looking for a break.
Let me in, let me cross,
let me be 

in New York strolling without
longing for a face
I’ve never seen. Umbrellas
collide into one another
over sidewalks washed off 

as an Impressionist painting blurry
as the view I had
before glasses, before
knew there was no cure
for this thirst.  Let me in,
let me cross, let me be 

here—this city, here is
New York, compressing,
stressing, confessing to
all life this small island still.