Little blue tent.

You have seen me through some of the darkest
days, when life sapped, soggy, slapping along
the rain riddled streets, enfolded in that
black gossamer gown of the gathered air

wet through, wind puffed, yet sweating too along
the ambivalent day's incline and its
own way of drenching each human, like some
needy nocturne triffid, ambling along the pavement

where you are the endpoint known from above,
swirled in slate grey specks that spiral down
to the mired earth mirror reflecting stars
soaking a multitude of rushing dots

and splodges trudging on and on toward
little blue tents waiting, in dark streets,
waiting: patiently to take them home
up hills to glowing doors and drying lives

where all, who stand in dripping hallways,
and think differently on night, shall be saluted.