We are here…and you are not; I watch all the rose and caramel dappled skies drifting lovely above the road winding to the city…and feel the glory of late October winds.
I’m looking for something else; something solid like the grasp of your hand and the black, bristled shoe brush and the whisked sound of you polishing my Sunday shoes; swish swish…back and forth…
I want my Mary Janes back. I want that time back. I’ll take October’s glory instead, only because I must.
690 Saint Paul 