Even the Rain

Even the rain was beautiful then, so
it did not matter if I was sad. Even the
mottled zinc of the Hudson from my
train window in a storm that sloshed

water almost to the tracks. Even the
sunburn needling the back of my neck
under my halter top — a kiss, a giggle.
I’d had too much sun, was near fever

with sun. That didn’t matter either. My
commuter pass, my espadrilles soggy
and doggy-smelling, too long in Central
Park with college friends whose names

I’ve washed away since. The day had gone
dim. Towering cumulus, someone said.
I’d left someone. Someone had left me. 
Maybe this was the night I’d call the DJ

I’d been listening to all summer.  We’d 
end up married. Too much sun, thunder,
too much rain. I was so sad. The rain was
moonstones set in silver, pretty, doomed.