thursday

thursday, and

i can hear
the dripping of
      the rain, the
   tires splashing
   through the lot, and
even the cat
does not want
   to come out
   from under the
   covers, so
drag me out of bed,
hand me a cup of tea,
send me out the door
      to be the
warmth for someone
   who knows what
   real cold is;
light for the child
   afraid of the shadows;
hope for the fellow
   who sleeps on
   despair’s streets.
 
© 2018 Thom M. Shuman