As in a Sudden Downpour, When,

out on the town together, men
won’t wait until the harder
shower’s over, nor cower, nor dodge
for cover, awning to awning, as one
would certainly do on one’s own,
but troop on as before, or slower,
as if the weather were warfare,
every street a trench, their amble
in the drench a marching order—

don’t we too, arm in arm on a
foreign city’s cobbles, stumble
from welfare into harm on cue,
our duty to perform, but in no
hurry, drunk on courage, gauging
only a faraway worry in the rage?
Don’t we too slosh from age
to age and curtain to curtain,
awash in camaraderie, our
eager number our only cover?

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