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
