There's a dampness in the air

as a biting cutting wind

tries to seep into my lungs

in old Boston

not so far from the bay.

I skip and stumble over cobblestones

and run my fingers over granite tombs

that history left for me to see

along the Freedom Trail.

Revere - Hancock - Franklin

Squirrels burrow in the fallen leaves

hunting secrets I can not see

and scurry from my footsteps.

I marvel at the names etched and faded there

"…Here lies the body of..."

It's cold in Boston

in November

very cold - and damp

and a vagrant lies on a bench

oblivious to me and history

I do not acknowledge him

but my mind's eye takes in

the thin worn jacket

the newspapers he's wrapped around his legs

the age-old stubble gray upon his chin

I huddle closer inside my coat

and slip my hand inside the pocket

of the man beside me

the man who will give me of his warmth

and make me feel like I belong.

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