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

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s