John 3

It was the sort of wind
that blows cold through your sweater,
blows cold deep
down to your old, stone bones.

It makes them ache.
It makes you walk head down,
pulling your collar up around your neck,
huffing furnace heat into your hands,
slapping your feet flat against the asphalt
until your toes sting.

It was the sort of wind
that blows cold against the street shops,
blows cold deep
down through the city canyons.

'Makes the alleys sigh,
and if you are of the sort who hears,
your will hear your name
rocking in the joints of the Maxwell Pharmacy sign;
turning in the steely crank of the barber pole,
blood-striped and lifted high,
like a serpent;
running through dried leaves exhaled
from the iron grate where
street water rolls after a rain.

If you are of the sort who loves the light,
Little Moth, you will push open the front door
of Lydia's Cafe,
and stand on her red, waxed floor
while your cheeks steam off the winter coral.

There you will grant your hunger leave
to leave you weak.

She makes soup every morning
from good things she bought whole
and divided.

Though, if you are of the sort who hates the light,
you will preserve your dignity,
walk on,
walk on,
walk on
in that mad, needless hurry
you will walk on,
wiping the drip on the end of your raw nose
into the wool of your coat sleeve.