Dark: cold air shivers over my arms in goose-pimples: that alert my tongue to the melting of icicles as they sleep on my tongue: the white, watered patches sticking, as if they are snowflakes; or dehydration, I do not know. The bitten frost: layers the coating of the car door: that steals into the silver light, that melts the shadows; that form from the gloom: and invite me in: but I decline the letter; I let it burn in the auburn sun. Feet patter patter; out in front of me: and I cannot breathe; I wonder: if rain will clean my snow-swept feet: if sun will run my back wild with burn: if milk: will break away: in chocolate shades; as the sun rainbows over the sky. I wonder if ice will lick the sheets of morning; on the cap of a home-bound car, if garage doors will fall open; and allow a theatre of light: if moon will rise on the horizon, and decorate the night in cherries of yellow-frosted cake. If my feet lead me up a greyed street; where glass; black doors: close their doors; as if in shame: I wonder: will it open again, when life is less spent? The songs of yesteryear melt on my tongue; they loop and swing; to the tale of bed, and sleep: and warm; comfortable; cream-blue sheets; that crinkle on your toes; like silver foil: as it wraps your head tight. If golden butter; falls from the carton, will honey splatter onto the newly-kissed floor: and will margarine coat my hair, in a chocolate mane; and fall out onto the boot-squelched mud. If sun mixes with black night; will an art palette paint dirty blue, and idyllic pink; and newborn orange: and anxious amber: and will the cotton flowers fasten onto my necklace; as its pearls tangle; tickle: my bare neck. As I call out; on the black-and-blue: old-fashioned telephone; red, will a friend hear it ring; will a friend coil their hands onto the other end; and allow the curled handle: to mimic my black hair, and will my voice say; in my mouse-ridden; small voice: will it call: that I am in my Coat, and I am home.