People are walking around all lazy. Trains, busses and cars are moving all slow like. It's like a goddamned Tennessee Williams 86 degree languid summer Sunday afternoon and shit. But it ain't. It's a friggin Monday (well, Tuesday actually, but a "Monday" for those of us with the long weekend) and it's 16 (degrees farenheight) not 86 so move your friggin asses or I'll have to start moving them for you.
The sign on the train screams back at you:
Please (period) Put your baby to sleep on it's back (period)
Stop sudden infant death syndrome.
A chill rolls up your spine. The doctor never told you this. There was no doctor. You birthed your child in the back of an Escalade and cut the umbilical with the in-dash cigarette lighter. Now your baby is dead and the train is condemning you.
I walk into my office and there on my desk, standing up straight like an obelisk, is the chap-stick I left behind for the weekend. Dare I let this wax salve touch my lips again? Thinking back over the past three days I can only imagine where this soothing balm could have been, the sorrows it may have seen. Could this once healing unguent be now my dermal foe?