Overcast

Overwashed linens abrade my fingers. As I force down the last gulp of stale coffee the shabbiness of hotel-room existence hits home. There's a farty smell to this room no amount of air freshener can mask. It smells of leaky sinks and trash bins, perhaps the previous occupant. The three stuffed dogs on the portable bassinet mobile face the wall, tired of looking at me as well. Even though passersby can see into the room, often with my bare breast showcased, I can't bear to close the shades. Thick and plaid, they obliterate daylight along with good taste. Across the street there's a park. We've been- to watch the older children play, to stimulate her senses with shouts and sprints. Reluctantly after a time we must head back, for food, dryness, and warmth, babies' primary needs, are not provided by pea gravel and wood chips. Framed in cold, black metal, shielded with thick, smeary glass the view of the distant park becomes depressing, a carelessly planned playground so near a penitentiary.