The red lips stain her cigarette, as the sun makes her smile shine. She waits for the smoke to clear, among the noise of heavy engines, crying babies in plastic prams, electro-pop music. She glances up, the seasons have changed. It was January forever, then it'll be June too soon. Men with shaved chests speaking in foreign tongues. How does God expect her to focus on troubles when the weather makes her want to belt out in song?