A Manchester Monsoon
Face life with all you have left.
the sweet cigarette smoke that fills your lungs, and the smell that flushes your nostrils, a divine concoction of guilt and love, such as the sight of a dying dove.
a Manchester monsoon, and I'm statuesque on the white lines of an illuminated street, the raindrops racing down my face, the rainwater soaking my feet,
I'm amongst the doers and the successful, in a sink or swim world, but I belong with those already sunk,
with sodden socks, I rest on abandoned breeze-blocks, begging the clocks to slower their tempo, a Manchester monsoon, collecting your daily dose of hope from those just like you, swaying to the music in a murky room.
About the Creator
Jake Yates
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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