Cold in the early-morning city. Wind rolls her eyes at my sale-rack coat, thin leggings, passes right through them. Waiting for the light to change, huddled against the cold, huddled against the city, huddled against myself. Waiting for my life to change, so many red lights, dead-ends, detours; needing gentle breezes, needing a green. Paint peels off light poles like bark on the birch trees back home. Life rolls her eyes at my expectations, my excuses, my plans. They peel off, fall away, leaving me naked before the wind. Life. There are no sale-rack coats, no leggings, for one’s soul.
"Classic"
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