The cold rain recalls those dismal days when I worked as a
messenger in NYC, a vagabond kept warm by the overcoat the Army let me keep
when I got discharged, those chill days seemingly so sour then, but in
retrospect now seem sweet, as now, this time, after a cold, cold winter, life
is sweet again, and sour, having missed something I ought not have and regret
my inability to get it back, like the bus trip I took as a kid, having missed a
stop with no way to reverse, having only a one-way ticket, rain dotting the bus
windows, with me hoping the deluge will stop by the time I get to my
destination, where life might feel sweet again, this chill day seeping into my
bones, raising all those moments when I should have done things differently,
now can’t turn back, I’m soaked to the bones, looking from where I’ve been
rather than where I’m going, missing people I know do not miss me.
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