Foul odor lurks off the breath of this city and
jaundice is the skin that wraps around its sky.
As this contagion spreads through dirty hands
of its people, through depressed hearts of this
land, my garden lacks it's bloom. Thirsty, thirsty
am I for an antibiotic. For a surgery to reconstruct
this sickness that drains the color of this face.
The very frontline, the best feature of this place.
(I'm wondering how one can get home sick, if they're
sick of being home)
People laugh as I mime the contraption that has me
boxed in this location, but perhaps invisible walls,
guarded corridors will keep me immune from this
contagion.
