Cold mist beads and drips off my long black coat.
Drops sparkle in the streetlights like small stars
I pull my collar up over my throat.
I ignore the warmth of cafés and bars.
My hands stuffed in my pockets, I walk fast.
My breath puffs up like steam from an old train.
Warm coffee shops beckon but I walk past.
The mist grows up to be cold autumn rain.
Two blocks past the stoplight is my small space
where I have hot-chocolate and all my books.
I also have blankets and a perfect place
to hang these cold, dripping clothes up on hooks.
But now I must feel the icy rain’s bite
Walking and puffing through frigid wet night.
Benjamin J. Cline
October 4, 2003
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