I Need a Raincoat

Saturday morning at the Fulton mall, sun beaming down as you wait impatiently for the bus. His playlist makes you all sorts of maudlin, and it makes the cherry blossoms unpleasantly out of place.

You wake alone in your impossibly large room on East 4th, buy your coffee alone and ride the bus without saying a word. It runs past the house on Dean Street where you used to spend your days, where you used to live someone else's life. In your old home on Morton Street, an Italian mother dotes on a new young tenant. 

Perhaps the shaky legs of a person without a hand to hold should make you feel sad. 

But hell if it don't make me feel free.