I hear the lonesome wind come in against the moored boats' bones as I load the warm laundry into the van. A dog tethers a woman across the street. Her eyes dart to her door when she sees me - hands plucking at the fabric mask she clutches. I smile, but the cloth on my own face obscures the sentiment. The space between us grows from a road to 3 times 6 feet to the world. A cough rises in my chest rebellious and shameful like a confederate flag flying from the back of a pickup in your hometown. My lungs spasm for relief as I slam the door against her judgment. The only thing louder than my hacking is that wind. Still lonely.
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