I leave the Tenement Museum and walk
Eight lengthy blocks to Tompkins Square Park thinking
About the wallpaper. They peeled back sixty-
Three layers in all — each one an attempt
To start again, to make a home again.
It’s August and not hard to imagine how
Those walls might start to warp with summer’s sigh,
Revealing patterns from before, a floral
One and another with some flecks of green.
A tepid breeze provides the sole relief.
Today, the others in the park and I
Have sought the shade of trees, escaping ninety
Percent humidity. Rain falls lazily.
It thunders and the pavement gives off heat.
It steams in clouds that puddle by my feet.
The sky breaks open suddenly, the way
Late summer clouds can, torrents rushing down.
The streets are rivers now. I wade across
The avenue where others stand to wait
Beneath the blue-striped awning of a café.
The storm pours all around us, strangers still
But bound by this one moment. Everything
Has stopped. A restless city finally
Holds still. As storm clouds part and rain slows down,
A dewy coolness settles on our skin.
The others leave, returning to the streets.
I stay under this shelter, shivering
Now that the air has cooled. When I’m about
To go, I see you wedged beside the door
And realize it’s your home. I didn’t know.
The cardboard, damp now, covers you like walls.
There’s no escape from August’s heat or summer’s
Brief, dark squalls. Facing outward, wearily,
You keep this corner as your own, and peer
Into this world that cannot be your home.