An old scar,
two scraps of paper,
a forgotten tune.
and a red thread.
The rain drums a note.
I close the lid.
One mangy mongrel napping on a mound of yellow leaves,
Another saunters by, sniffs the spot and curls up to sleep.
First mangy mongrel opens and rolls an eye,
Thinks to himself, what an impertinent creep.
Sunday, 7.17 AM > a 55er
She shrugged. He winced, this wasn't good.
"I didn't like it, thats all", he said.
She stared through the grimy glass, the smoke her veil.
Was this the end, then?
The door creaked open, people straggling in for the breakfast special.
The waitress ambled across.
A fly buzzed on the windowsill.
He ordered more coffee.