sunglasses smudged with rain. the reek of wet concrete sends me. glazed roads. girls in galoshes. their frizzy hair pulled into discreet ponytails, unruly in the breeze. on the stoop i do not think about palliatives for ingrown hairs or john kerry’s botox-blown mug staring up at me from every riven sheet of newspaper: we can’t turn a blind eye on evil deeds even if we are fatigued. but i do. lost in my boxy sweater, buttoned to the neck, my pink umbrella spread, high and haughty against the wash of grey.