Expectorant

The rain brings out the smells of the street

Like an expectorant.

Fragrances flowing

Instead of trapped uselessly in the concrete

For no one to enjoy or be repulsed by.

For, no one in their right mind would dare bring their delicate nose

and mouth and face

So close to the pavement.

So close to the disease hiding emplacement

of ignorant beings, for their nicotine-less leftovers of cancer.

But I am usually in my left mind.

And enjoy the varied smells of Bridge Street.

I would sit among the rubbish

To feel the heated stone

In the summer

When germs aren’t real

And any place to bask is a good one.

But, it is summer not yet

though, getting there.

Slowly,

Painfully,

Creepingly.

April showers bring May flowers and the air is filled with moisture, cold and dreary.

The perfect environment to nurse and encourage growth to the yellow, thick infection

in my lungs.

Making my coughs sound chunky and degenerative like an old man on his

death bed.

My sickly noises draw concerned stares from the others on the bus,

but this is Oswego and the people have been blown into the same twisted shape as the trees

by the fierce angry wind.

So I stare right back.