The house is cold.
I’m wearing the fuzzy blue socks
my cousin gave me
two Christmases ago, when she still
remembered who I was—
a cobalt blue talisman that
makes me think of her
whenever I open my sock drawer.
In my father’s sock drawer
was a jumble of pennies, nickels, and dimes.
With quarters he could buy a pack of Kools,
supposed to be soothing on the throat;
and maybe they were, for the duration
of his short life.
The rain comes in torrents.
The street is a river where everyone
I have ever known comes swimming by.
I see them as if through the murky glass
of a laundromat washer, turning, shifting,
waving sometimes as they come into view.