Promenading round the promenade,
making paper missiles out of the tall
Manhattan buildings, throwing them
back and forth to each other,
apples in an orchard,
the juice running slowly down our chins.
Making the rain jealous and so stopping,
hanging above our very heads threatening
to weep as so many nights since
it has. Our passing slowing melancholy;
the soft puddles and cool air.
Warm hands waltzing, surely
others did this before us,
but they did not laugh so much,
nor find so lively the silence
of beating before the rain, walking fast
once it finally caught us, driving
the trouble before our feet,
is there anyone yet who could walk
as fast as me? No, I think not,
but you are quicker down the stairs
in slippery shoes and kick a ball
harder than me, hits me in the chest
before I am ready and you far off
among the grass, smile graceful.
