I have to believe that there is hope.
That troubles wafting in the air, foul odors,
can be washed off my skin or perhaps
recede from my awareness.
I cannot hear over rude noises
But I have to believe there is hope.
Breathing through the mouth
only coats tastebuds.
Perfume sours, leaving only the scent of alcohol
Oil essentially burning in the sun
I have to believe there is hope,
even as the miasma leaves me gasping.