Dirty monsoon clouds and jet trails make wisps and feathers in the sky. The contaminated air makes my congested lungs feel permeated, my eyes prickle from crying. Sometimes I have reasons. Sadness that feels like an oversized fur coat in monsoon weather. I want to strip off these dead mink pelts, bare my living skin to everyone on Oxford and back to Main Street. On the double-decker and I’m tired of sweating. I’m oblivious until I offer my seat to a woman with a splintered bamboo cane. Old wounds can heal if you let them. You have to let them breathe.
"Classic"
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