Injury

I was walking in the Village,
Eighth Avenue, people all around, winter chill
And I passed one of those tiny streets
That branch off into quaintness
With warm brownstones
And the gold light
Of secret interiors
Did you pick up the cat?
Yes, hun
How's my baby?
Cold out
Come here
Let me warm you up
Bringing you to the bed
Your smile
Kitty's watching us
Leave the city at the door
But now I don't break my stride
I can't even look
The Avenue pulls me into its stream
I'm jostled by strangers
And I let them take me farther, farther
Where I don't have to see
The closed door.