Strange how a summer cloudburst can stop a city
at noon. She takes the stage and at once we are all
supporting players. The café waiter scurrying
to clear dishes from sidewalk tables. The drunk
smoking in a doorway. Even the lawyers and execs
turning up the collars of their Burberry suits
now seem no more formidable than little boys
sandlot game was called in the seventh.
In the second act, a woman passes, holding a green
and pink umbrella, her hips rolling beneath
her dress. A delivery man runs by with a bouquet
and exits, stage right. In the third, a couple
of tourists hail a cab. Two nurses share a smoke
beneath the hospital marquee. There is a flash
of lightning, the hustle and slap of footsteps,
and then the curtain.