Subject of a Song

There might be a way out,
I conclude. My shirt is still damp
from New York's soupy streets.
The Fedex man and me
are both at work, so there's that.
On 10th Avenue
a Great Dane slobbers
on a little girl's arm.
Rain falls, or doesn't.
The sun shines, or makes
a beeline to the exit,
which is only a form
of revolution. You can bank
on change, loosen your boots,
strain for the plug, but you'll always
and only be a dumb nugget of woes
making plans you may not see through.