A dot on the map,
two slowly moving specks,
milling around cobblestone and hopping puddles.
It’s raining and the library’s not open yet.
The misty bay is rife with towering masts
and the lapping of crisp waves,
while the streets collect heaven’s gifts,
water jumping up and water coming down.
The kitten figurines and Port Jefferson t-shirts
welcome us stragglers and don’t take to heart
our time-killing nonchalance.
Christmas wreaths on lampposts don’t blame us,
our hot teas in gloved fingers are content,
and the world for us is no more threatening
than closed library doors before noon.