foxy

Day 20: Morning Tea

I sat all through the isolated night of another numbered day and waited for the quarantined morning to rise out over the sickly and fearful City of Wayne.  I waited with smoke-filled eyes, blinking hot and red, not from an underlying undiagnosed infection, but from self-imposed sleepless anticipation and lingering artistic nervousness.  I waited with smokey breath, listing and rough, not in dire need of a mechanical ventilator’s push, but rather from the damp warning kiss of a new morning being born before me. This little locked-down flyover town remains somewhat the same, still somehow in ill-advised touch with its original rhythm and pulse, pumping and pushing on through the breaking light of a new day dawning.  It seemed, briefly, as it always was, a deception …

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