Rain in the Suburbs

No longer do those bright young people fill
the narrow streets.  The cheating sky is ridden
by drifting clouds that keep the sun well-hidden;
a radio plays songs of sadness. Still,
the falling rain is laughing all the morning -  
it's gurgling down the gutters, down the street;
safe in my raincoat, on dry rubber feet
I'm walking through the quarter.  There's no mourning,
no sadness in the crying of the skies,
but streams of cleansing water, running, swirling
and dusting leaves and sidewalks, wheeling, whirling
all odds and ends downstream.  A young boy cries
for joy.  He's playing boats with broken sticks;
his wild, wet hair is in his eyes.  He grins,
pretending that his hands and feet are fins...  
Then child and sticks drift off to other tricks,
 his laughter's echo fading down the bricks,
and though my coat starts leaking at the seams
this morning is as perfect as my dreams
and more so than my most exotic kicks.