Graffiti

In a place like this you sometimes shiver in the summer.

There are things that people made, and bought, and dragged about, static but for the decay.

You rarely meet anybody on your travels, though you know they’ve trod the same paths by the shifted objects, the stray sounds and smells. It’s as if everyone takes turns to preserve their solitude.

But there were exceptions.

As I lurched past it, a trailer slumped diagonally onto an axle stump around which a fourth wheel was making its absence felt. A man brazenly sprayed an autumnal burst of paint on its side, kicking it while it was down.

“Why bother,” I wondered. Or did I ask aloud?

To my back he offered, “It’s no bother at all.”

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