Relic
Station commute, cloudy breath – warm coat. I slip my hand into my pocket and find, not hankies and the change I keep for shop doorway residents, but a mask. Paper cotton, ear loops and that unforgettable yeasty breath smell. I’d put those birdsong bright days of fear and wide empty roads away. They’d gone into the box of long ago and thank god it’s over, packed in the place where you put the photos of yourself as a person you hardly recognise. Covid. A fracture in life I hope I can continue to say I’m lucky enough to leave behind.
