From the Federated Building

Sometimes in the summer, stagnant heat blows its lid and
explodes
and storms come to the city.
The contours of the roof sculpt the water into rivulets that look like crystal.
They are undulating as they skim down the window-glass, flopping like sidewinders.
A great torrent is falling into the street, ushered by the corners of sloping roofs,
soaking the scaffolds and wetting girders that weep rust.
And sure enough, a man flips a thick newspaper to the
nape of his neck and takes to a run.
Another, with a metallic click, opens his umbrella.
Soon the streets are emptied, and even
from the tallest towers, a haze hangs on the air
to accompany the treble melody of the rain.

The afternoon sun can make short work of these showers,
slicing its beams through the cloud deck and sending steam from the blacktop.
Crawl! worker bees,
crawl, you drones! from your marble-faced hives,
dampen your soles on the drying sidewalks,
take your lunch hours and look in bewilderment at the sky.