Manhattan Rainstorm

I walk out into the post-thunderstorm park.
Cherries at twilight,
spitting pits out into
the cobblestone shadows mustering in the dark
of the crepuscular lawn under
sycamores secreting cinnamon after the rain,

Walk, spit, walk spit.
Soft cherry flesh melts,
tart and crisp inside my teeth,
straining the ridged pit,
and launching it lawn-ward with my tongue

Walk, spit, walk spit,
red cherry juice stains my chin,
blue rain sky quivers ahead.