stray

Stray
by Troy Cady

Last night,
I stumbled
from the underground
half-formed
and limping.
I dragged
the luggage
sideways
through the
chilled city streets,
bundled stale shirts
stuffed within,
half-folded,
crumpled and damp.
I quickened my step
in stained shoes
past the dirty cars
under leering steel street lamps.
A smoking gray man coughed
and shuffled,
rustling yesterday’s newsprint,
of no consequence and torn.
I kept my head down,
drooping
like a starved, lost stray.

Last night
your skin was
pale moon
light robed
in clear
blue night.
Your lips
bright red.
Your hair
sweetly scented.
You saw me and smiled.

I am home on warm wood floors.
Hold me.