If it’s possible to be lonely
When brushing shoulders with the city
And the scat-jazz raindrops
Fall on colorless pavement
Then it’s possible to be full
Of some howling-wind feeling
Of home or not
Or here and there
And have a cup of tea
And watch the droplets
(named like horses- Lucky Strike and Betelgeuse and Sir John Falstaff)
race down the rattling pane.
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