J A M E S   G.   K O C H
    Apres Le Pluie.
Yes, I knew he was a
Runaway on the street
With decal eyes in the yellow lamplight.

But you could not understand

Why he stood in the night-rains
And as I neared him,
How his eyes captured mine and whispered:
The rains are beautiful,
Still I am cold.

That's when the rains stopped
And only the gutter's trickle
Remained outside my window
How my sad rain-boy
Whispered soft wisdom of the street corners
Saying softly:
Thanks, it's good to be warm.

Why his eyes held the mystery of night,
And his face the power of storm-skies,
And his words the warmth of my bed.


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