Cold

Friends came from the south last night
Bringing news and wine;
The ashtrays we brought out for them
Are cold this morning.
The streets pool with rain and wet leaves;
Cats run against the wind without dignity;
I falter on the basement steps.

Happiness
Was supposed to come easier.

"Your problem is that you think
You should have no problems,"
Said one old man, long dead.
Turning the leaves over in my hands
I am inclined to agree;
But it doesn't make me fond of him.