A Winter City

It was raining then, cold and gray
drops darkening the sidewalks.

The radiator was broken,
and we wore our coats everywhere,
tiptoeing into little shops
lit with yellow incandescence,
tensed and waiting, pretending to belong
until we were told to leave;

riding the Piccadilly line out to Acton and back
on the strength of our day passes
because the vents under the seats
blew tropical air on our calves.

We scrabbled for pence in our pockets
and bought cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate
under the great iron roof at Paddington Station,
which cradled us and every other traveler in its arch.

We were no travelers, though,
at least not to Oxford or Bristol,
Exeter or Penzance, far-away western places.
Bellies mostly full and slightly warmer,
we were reluctant returnees
to the steaming subways and the rain-dark streets
where the wind lurked between tall buildings,
waiting to slice through my stockings,
leech heat from my uncovered neck.

We will never be this young again-
walking through a winter-sad city,
dazzled by stonework and foreign signs.
We will never be together like this again,
observing that the sun sets here
well before afternoon tea.


Copyright 2006, Rebecca E. Helton

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