Wet as chickens
we anticipated the morrow's cold,
cold from occasional shivers
and sneezes, we dragged
the avenue under your red
umbrella in snail-walk and the furls of rain
blinded us between bites of dark,
our safety under the belly of the overpass
where brown water rushed through
the street gutter in a run of angry
trash: wet shoes, your red umbrella dripped
on your side and our wetness drew our forms—
fine lines, curves and contours—
we were benumbed and felt naked as stones but
hand in tag, we braved the waters,
rode the bus and hurried
to go home even we knew at the hint
of warmth, at every push and drag, such tender
force, sweetest power, shelter at hand,
beforehand, we were Home.
