There is rain
just outside the doorway.
There are stairs
just inside it, where I sit.
There is a door
up the steps, behind me.
It is open, and just inside it
are my books, my bed, your bracelet on the stand.
There is rain, and the sound of rain,
outside my downstairs doorway.
There are hurrying strangers and taxis going by.
It is wet, but it isn't cold.
I have been watching
carefully, the street just outside my doorway.
I have been thinking of the way you say certain words;
especially the way you speak my name.
If you come,
my door will be open, the stairway behind me clear.
There will be coffee, and the smell of coffee.
Your boots will paint themselves in rain all the way up.