Icy rain and wind outside; inside, my back’s
To the bedraggled human shape asprawl
On the comfy corner sofa at the Starbucks,
Invisibly fenced from the rest of us by swells
Of back-alley scent. The glass door reflects
A knit cap pulled low over the face, chin
Buried in bulky red. I can only guess the leg
That catches my peripheral vision is a man’s,
Bulgy calf exposed — no way to quite make out
The tattoo stretching along the patchy skin,
A blue range of mountains maybe, flock
Of seabird wings, with just a touch of sun —
Yes, sun, I don’t think I’m imagining it —
Rising from the folds of a gray sock.
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