| Fog
|
| Is catching
|
| In cold
|
| Round drops
|
| And from the rail
|
| Of his terrace
|
| Dripping
|
| Some to fall and some to blink
|
| In colours of neon from signs all along
|
| His street
|
| His stairs are wood
|
| And old
|
| And they creak
|
| They complain
|
| When I come
|
| And talk
|
| When I go But I’m quiet if I try
|
| And don’t stay too long
|
| And I go before the morning
|
| And the dripping of the fog
|
| Is gone
|
| Sometimes I wonder
|
| Should I wake him to see
|
| All those bright bubble drops
|
| In the still slickened streets?
|
| Sometimes I wonder
|
| Has he ever really seen them?
|
| Sometimes I wonder
|
| Has he ever really seen me?
|
| It’s so warm and still
|
| Fresh coffee
|
| And oranges
|
| Soon almond cakes
|
| He’ll sleep
|
| Until they’re done
|
| There hasn’t been a sound
|
| From under
|
| Those signs
|
| Haven’t heard a single footstep
|
| That is rushing to be On time
|
| Colors that are dripping
|
| Help to make up For his silence
|
| I think of you in green
|
| I remember
|
| He once told me But when I go As I always must do The color in his day will be clear
|
| And
|
| Blue |