there's nothing quite like watching the sky
grey over into monochrome,
the diminishing light sharpening this city's terrain -
a crosswalk a brim of puddles,
the squeak of the trolley turning down Market
a child's boots making their comical splash
against no one in particular
there's the sudden itch for soup, hot coffee, casseroles,
matinees with overbuttered popcorn,
the handknit sweater hiding on a back shelf of closet,
slippers and late-night snacks.
in bed, i watch as friday's rain gathers into
a glassy quarter inch on the deck.
i am thinking of
how warm it is under these covers
and the ecstasy of sleep tonight.
while clouds and god
release their yearning from the sky,
i find myself burrowing,
the blanket easy, warm, permissive.
outside, the deck chairs are
stoic under the wet
the sirens oddly silent
friday coming to a gentle, tap-tap of a close.
somehow, like surprise,
like a promise,
this city feels pregnant