Philosopher’s couch.

There, in the tall grass growing wild under the bridge arcing over the railroad rail, rock and ties, was the old couch losing its stuffing and with a dangerous spring if you didn’t know how to plop down in it properly — his sanctuary against the insanity of the city scurrying just above his head. Just another cigarette, he told himself, kicking a used condom someone had deposited near where his roughworn boots dug into the earth. And so he smoked, the insect hum of traffic passing over his head.

© Michael Raven

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