by James McDuffie
4–3−2002
I don’t like the cold,
Never have.
I sit here on the beach,
Yet I am cold.
The sun is shining,
People sunbathe,
Yet I am cold.
This is the golden state,
A place where it never rains,
But a wind blows from the west,
Keeping me cold.
I left the hot edge of the
Mountains for this?
Being cold is like being dead,
Shivering like being poor,
The sun is out,
Yet a simple wind can defeat its warmth.
My nose runs and I have to wipe it,
I’d rather wipe the sweat from my brows.
Warmth is your mother’s arms,
Knowledge that if you die,
It is because you had too much love.
There is no love sitting here in the cold.
I hate the wind,
But only now,
When it cools me too much.
Othertimes I love the wind,
It relieves me of excess heat.
And on rare occassions,
It has warmed me on cold days.
But not today on this hot,
Yet feeling, cold beach.
I think of my bed at home,
A bed which I do not yet totally own.
It’s expensive comfort,
Supplemented by layers of blankets,
That keep me warm.
The wind is cold at night,
At the foot of the mountains.
My bed keeps me safe,
My temperature comfortable,
Despite my forgetfulness,
To close the windows.
I still lack one thing,
The woman who will occupy the void,
The empty space beside me.
Soon she will be here,
Lying next to me,
Her embrace giving me the warmth,
That today I have sought.