Fog is catching in cold round drops
And from the rail of his terrace
Dripping

Some to fall, and some to blink
In colors of neon from the signs
All along his street


His stairs are wood, and old
And they creak

They complain when I come
And they talk when I go
But I'm quiet if I try

And I 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 till they're done

There hasn't been a sound
Out 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