He’s right outside my window,
right now, right here.
In the rain, looking for dry spot, under the eaves,
or so I presume.
Wrestling with a blanket, tucking it into his torn jeans
It’s awkward, trying to work and watching him
just trying to be warm.
I wish I had a tarp, or a blanket, or something
I can’t see his face, but I can see
he’s wearing a
leopard skin bra.
But it’s cold and wet
and I don’t know
how to reconcile the
under the freeway with
the life I get to live,
where I ponder
creativity and travel and wine and
if I need a new sofa, or if chairs and better lighting
are good enough.