when I am riding past any house in the slow-gathering night,
in the spaces between trees, I spot the yellow glow,
a square-print sign of other life,
maybe just barely moving—
that soft glow-limned postage stamp above the slick, wet brown exterior,
the secret keeper standing,
a safe haven from the rain.
in there, they are leaning against one wall, book in hand, I think,
just like me,
only I cannot see them. And then the urge comes, the excited
stirring, to be passing my own mellow square at the same time as
I sit huddled warm in a blanket
in some other reality and I will know
I have arrived.
me, in the static light watching time pass,
me in the crowded dark outside, passing