Out

(The air by the river is mild,
thick with summer,
the last of the sunset dances
across the 
bridges, 
the rats are out in force, 
the flowers fight a sweet battle
of 
scents,
Loisaida cradles those 
faithful to it, 
it is only life. 

It occurs to me that maybe I am not the boat drifting
apprehensively
in the eye of the hurricane. 

It occurs to me that maybe 
I am
the storm.)