The Corner

Broken down suede chairs and plastic eyes, crooked teeth smiles and wilted paper pens curl creamily around tree trunk boots and old woman shaped hat racks that smell like cigars and toast. Beneath the chaos of wordy winged boots that stir the smoke, lies a dripping coffee tap that hates its tilted and mangled self. The coffee puddle in the corner dreams of becoming an oil spill or a scene of the crime, but the grass covered book shelves and picture frame floor just laugh. So under a fine layer of too big children’s jackets that still retain their blue-violet shapes and bowler hats that rolled too far, next to platinum junk filled slippers and triple layer cakes that sag over sadly so that the candles slide, is a decaf puddle that sniffles on my socks.





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