Feet Don't Dance Today

After the rain, the paving slabs form mirrors
to the sun. Gutters glitter, while gardens
steam and drip like jungles. Wafts of wet grass
and damp creosote evoke a heat-hazed
memory: A junior Gene Kelly,
ungainly in wellington boots, performs
a splash-dance in long dried puddles. My feet
don't dance today, for this is not the street
where I used to live. I know nobody,
so if I choose to skip the cracks or walk
a kerb edge tightrope, no-one will stop me.
I furl my black umbrella, unbutton
my coat and jump laughing in the water
- a reverse suicide - baptised, re-born.