Outside My Window

Underneath these layers, I'm bound in white spandex bandage.  I sit still and tall, and when I lean forward, I feel the bandage tug tight against my ribs.  Last night, in the car, she takes the key out of the ignition.  "And why," she asks, "are you doing this to yourself?"  It's about my energy and my art and my person in general.
Yesterday, after my ribs cracked like knuckles, I was stuck.  Propped up in my bed with my sketch pad in front, I, lacking precision, quickly etched the view outside of my window.  It was an in-between rain, not torrential and not drizzle, just a substantial amount of water splashing down and splattering.


Who dressed in layers of classic Mexican costume to conceal her twisted ribs and limp leg?  Was it Frida Kahlo, who, bed-ridden and crippled, began to paint?