I saw you this morning at winter's
breaking point, half on your way out of here
already, your breath rasping at me.
Because I did not talk to you
you spoke Creole into my eyes,
and I went back later to find you:
what a relief not to have to bring and
haul you across my apartment floor.
What a drag that would have been.
Later, working the filing cabinets,
I upped aid money to a new percent,
the street red, green and fluorescent.
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