On the Sixteenth of November my child
presses his face against my
wet raincoat
as a bus hushes to a stop.
A bus that isn't for us.
We stand in the thick foliage of rain
and breathe in the damp mist.
The streets are bruised with reflections of lights that
do not warm.
My child with his face pressed against my wet raincoat
says he loves me.
The words pitter then patter
and I stop shivering.