fly tipper

The settee lies not just at the side of the road but in the ditch, halfway down the grassy verge of a two seater relationship come unstuck. Stunned and gasping as if reclining weight just sent it backwards on a slow sliding sprawl.

Hollowed out cushions. Sad indentations still bolstering not quite visible occupants. Ghosts.

Squat and ugly, it sits basking in 2:00 AM halogen glare. Stoned and bleeding stuffing; invalid and in denial. How did it get here ? How could it have come to this ? Left for dead on the hard shoulder where the hairpin bend turns savage tricks.

You blink and glance in the rear view mirror. Light another cigarette and put your foot down in the rain.


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