Is
there anything else as sad
as
a lonely man wearing
sideboards
above his head
like
a bunnygirl wears her ears?
He
walks in raised steps
like
a game of pick-up-sticks,
his
hands firmly in pockets,
feeling
stones for comfort.
An
old three-piece-suite
dumped
on the side of the street,
as
forlorn as a left-behind smile,
whispers
for him to come and sit down.
“Rest
your weary legs and bum,
you
sad little man,” says the three-piece-suite
with
a sofa for a head,
and
two easy-ear-chairs on either side.
The
bunnygirl sideboardman checks no one is looking
and
falls into the sofa,
letting
its arms wrap around him
like
upholstery muffs on a cold lounge day.
He
sits there with the sofa and chairs,
watching
the infinite snow space unravel infront of him,
and
remembers a blood-sun day when he
and
his love cuddled together to watch tv.
No
longer alone, memories a kind of comfort cushion,
he
smiles and falls into a long warming sleep:
the
three-piece-suite and he leave the world of snow,
no
footsteps or marks left in the deep below.
