An overcoat is a second skin.

The best thing of anything today is hearing the city come to life:

the sun rises through my balcony windows

the post office sings

dogs bark and birds buzz.

I sneak to make coffee without waking Emily.

Always bold French roast.

Puck, the indoor, domesticated sprite, mewls.

Television's off tonight,
I heard somebody cry outside,
and the smells of spring are everywhere
getting mixed up with my own.

I feel like so many analogies
but what I am is a cat in sunshine.
A cat in sunshine, a canary in a coal mine.

When the autumn leaves and the winter settles in,

sometimes it seems as though an overcoats a second skin.