there was always something sitting on that park bench. no one ever took their trash from it, their personal belongings. one day there was a small purse, a dark red with black trip and a tiny strap... so small it was hardly worth putting one on.
another day, a travel mug, still partially filled with tea. for a few hours it smelled of herbs and sweet flavorings, but the sun turned it to another piece of rotting liquid.
there was a shoe.
last week a paperclip.
each day, each week, each month, new belongings left behind, and why? who were the people leaving traces of themselves behind? a burger wrapper, so close to the trash bin. was it laziness, a subconscious effort to leave a memory? were they distracted- and by what? sickness? love? indifference?
a man in a long, brown coat.
headphones this time.
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