You can hear me walking
from your bed, where the blankets
aren’t enough to keep you warm.
It’s a long night of snow, and snowiness,
and winter loneliness, and what else I don’t know,
but I’m thinking if you can hear me
walking you might want to visit, to knock
on my door with a story you’d been waiting—
days, months, maybe years—to tell.
Tell me something that can’t be told,
and I’ll be in my worn pajamas, or brushing
my teeth, my hair, putting away magazines.