Dark nights, cold and petrified with a golden glaze cast by city lights, wash over the huddled hordes, who curse the train tonight for bringing winterâs bite. And, her temples ache. Beneath her scarf, her face is wet from tears the winds have made. As the train pulls away, she slouches over in wait, the world adrift âtil Clark and Lake. 3rd shift has blurred her cityscape. Green line until the Bronzeville gate. Sundown is her time awake, and sun up steals her sleep away. And, dark nights spent by the table light. Sheâs reading books and mending quilts amongst the sleeping quiet. Sheâs worn down and tired of playing cop, for this is not the work which she desired. The 1stâFloorâMan says, âTake things slowly. Youâll burn out if you feel so much.â But she worries because a bed lay empty. One of her girls is out there selling her winterâs touch.