Fog is catching in cold round drops   And from the rail of his terrace    Dripping   Some to fall, and some to blink   In colors of neon from the signs   All along his street      His stairs are wood, and old   And they creak   They complain when I come   And they talk when I go   But I'm quiet if I try   And I don't stay too long   And I go before the morning   And the dripping of the fog   Is gone      Sometimes I wonder   Should I wake him to see   All those bright bubble drops   In the still slickened streets   Sometimes I wonder   Has he ever really seen them?      Sometimes I wonder   Has he ever really seen me   It's so warm and still   Fresh coffee and oranges   Soon almond cakes   He'll sleep till they're done   There hasn't been a sound   Out from under those signs   Haven't heard a single footstep   That is rushing to be on time      Colors that are dripping   Help to make up for his silence   I think of you in green   I remember he once told me   But when I go   As I always must do   The color in his day will be   Clear...and...blue