Fog is catching in cold round dropsnAnd from the rail of his terrace nDrippingnSome to fall, and some to blinknIn colors of neon from the signsnAll along his streetnnHis stairs are wood, and oldnAnd they creaknThey complain when I comenAnd they talk when I gonBut I'm quiet if I trynAnd I don't stay too longnAnd I go before the morningnAnd the dripping of the fognIs gonennSometimes I wondernShould I wake him to seenAll those bright bubble dropsnIn the still slickened streetsnSometimes I wondernHas he ever really seen them?nnSometimes I wondernHas he ever really seen menIt's so warm and stillnFresh coffee and orangesnSoon almond cakesnHe'll sleep till they're donenThere hasn't been a soundnOut from under those signsnHaven't heard a single footstepnThat is rushing to be on timennColors that are drippingnHelp to make up for his silencenI think of you in greennI remember he once told menBut when I gonAs I always must donThe color in his day will benClear...and...bluennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn