It was a small and desiccated couch. Soft white cotton intestines
billowed out of jagged wounds in the cloth, spilt across the sidewalk and
tumbled down the street. They had come in the night, anonymous and frisky, and
deprived it of any sanctity. Those looters gone back to their dank hovels,
cozied into their couches, satisfied that no wayfarer would find their respite
tonight. I shook my head.
There were no lights overhead, the cotton like tumbleweed
ghosts, shriveled into themselves and if I glanced away, they might have
disappeared just as soon.
One end of the couch had its recliner extended, a hand
reaching out for help, instead abused and left hanging and hanging. I wonder if
anyone will set it back. It’s just a small gesture. I couldn’t stop. I left it
there.
I could use a good nap on a good couch, I think. I
miss having a reliable couch around. Like a dog always there to pick you up,
smile at you, warm and welcoming. Never with a frosty glare or an icy touch.
They call it a cliché: to miss something only once it’s been
taken from you.
What if it’s killed in front of you? What if you discover it
by chance? Openly slain and displayed for all to see?
It’s dark. No one will see it.
But it’s there.
--end--
