I called it "bread wind" - the warm pillow of yeast-filled air that would overwhelm my nose early in the morning spilling out from the grates of the streets of Aix-en-Provence. Bread wind would make your mouth water for pain au chocolat and baguettes and homemade pastries that were available fresh, daily.  That was way back when I still used to eat wheat.

I called it "bacon wind" - the hot steamy slap in the face of greasy-eggs-n-bacon-filled air that would make you catch your breath when you passed under the grate above you on a busy Manhattan street on your way to Sunday brunch.

Those concepts gave way to "street bread," the torn piece of giant pretzel or leftover bite of hotdog roll or unwanted half of an everything bagel that would somehow end up on the grass next to the suburban sidewalk where I'd walk the dogs.

Now it's "street masks," "street gloves," and street wipes." 

I've been around the world and back and live one mile from the hospital in which I was born.  A handful of years ago, I lived even closer and even walked to the ER once when I thought I needed medical attention. Being so close, my apartment complex houses neighbors who work at the hospital in all capacities.  As I walk by, I wonder about so many things - about their experiences to date, about how many days they must reuse their protective equipment, about how these supplies ended up strewn around our sidewalks. I wonder if the garbage truck, in its efforts to toss the dumpster trash into itself, manages to miss its own mouth on purpose these days.  And I don't wonder why no one bends down to pick them up.