Wednesday, 13 June 2018

Overcoat (June)

I remember Balaclava on Saturday mornings, going for bagels and coffee, returning to the little flat to travel into Russia, where the old soldiers have come home to be propped up in the corner of great literature. Downstairs the resident agoraphobe was having a crisis, hers to reason why, not to do, or die. It was bonecold June, I guess, when the rain freezes on concrete and your mouth makes the cloud of life from thin air. Other flat-dwellers shared self-exile a while out there in Crimea, working the week, going to bed early, their overcoats hung on door hooks.

No comments:

Post a Comment