Wednesday Night in London

I love the smell of a cold, rainy night
so brittle, the air freezes in my nostrils
It’s sobering in a way
with my lamp on and I, with my head poking out my window
a great time to smoke
But I quit last week
The music of the raindrops will suffice
The moisture turns the estate into wetlands
I can smell the earth three stories high
It’s consoling in a way
With my record playing and I, sitting here writing this poem.