In My Mind, He Rhymes

by The Juicer

“How are you?” he beamed.
He does that without fail –
Proving them wrong, consistently.
All those who ever complained,
Oh New York is so cold and grey!
And I like to see him –

When black and white mornings
rumble in this New York street.

I paused – there was still time.
Asked, how he’d been.
“I’m good,” he goes, “but damned cold!”
“It gets colder each year!” I rejoined superfluously,
“Or my judgment, must be failing me.”
“Bitter cold!” he carried on,

“But it is the new year,
so there is some cheer.”

“Must be warm,” I ventured more, “Where you come from!”
“All year-long! There is the sun and the sea,
I tell my family, they are so lucky!
But they – think differently.”
“I know what you mean,” at least I think I did.
Or maybe I didn’t,

“It’s hard to leave,
but I wouldn’t trade travel with stagnan-cy.”

“I traveled to learn and see,” he agreed,
“This, they said, is the land of the free.”
But then he bent and got busy,
unraveling a thread on his sleeve.
“You will not see me,” he said at last.
Warm wool in his hands, twisted dangerously.

“Tomorrow I will be gone,
where I belong.”

I see him now,
The prodigal son –
back under warmer suns,
Conversations in a much busier street.
His shirt a bright print, shaded by a red hat, perhaps.
Beaming, talking to –

Folks who traveled in search of warmth,
all the way from cold grey streets.

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