Every lit window is a gift at this hour
As my taxi turns toward downtown.
Perhaps you too are waking
To make the journey south.
Or perhaps you are dreaming through the storm,
Wishing us well into the thunder
And keeping your heart’s distance,
Which I cannot blame you for.
Or maybe you are frozen in the middle of your living room,
Having slept scarcely, scattered in shards of fear,
The TV muted.
Maybe your daughter or mother
Needs you more today
(Which is really a protest;
Which is love).
The thing is,