When it rains, the city becomes a tough poem.
Gray grim, nothing beautiful, not the way gray is in the Dutch master's paintings where a white light makes everything glow.
It's just grim.
The pregnant woman told me when it started today, she wanted to sue someone. She's a lawyer so that made sense.
But I don't want to sue. When it rains, I just get disappointed in the weatherman who said it wouldn't and then I just grimly walk through, ignoring everybody else. And everybody else just walks grimly through it, ignoring me.
Because when it rains, the city becomes a tough poem.
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