part obscured by my rubberized green gordon's fisherman raincoat
and my cut-off combat boots with slapping green laces
my good Grom, she is being rinse-cycled
shivering off the wet with a girlish shake
of her taut velvety chops,
the leash slack in my hand
because she questions the sense of it, a walk in the rain,
my mascara spangled in runny asterisks around my eyes,
we skid down 45 Avenue
avoiding oily puddles, snuffling the toes of trees
light sensors ticking white beams of open suspicion
as we go
and then --- ahead ---
against the camphor sky
a pillow of white smoke sifts slowly rightward
revealing the Chrysler building and her nieces and nephews
nightlit in a gridded majesty of gold,
crisp in their autumnal afterwork peignoirs