On Mass Ave a man
dragging a tattered blanket
walks slow against traffic

asking passersby
if they can spare a cigarette.
There is a chill this April

morning after a day
that could have been June.
Not one smoke trickles down

as I walk on to cross
the Charles, pass the spring
that feeds the tide that keeps on rising

here, leaving edges
where it breaks
for stowaways who know

how to lie low, cling to scraps
that take the chill off, ask
for nothing more than

what someone who has no doubt
they belong will throw away
when they step inside.