Jam

Jam.


The tv gurgles, spillage, spewing. Monotonous voices, unreal lives played out on glass.

Through the sullied window, leaking, the wind disturbs the uniform trees of his average street and it rains. Drizzling down, wetting the swaying leaves, tip tapping the average houses, real lives played out behind glass.

Behind glass scenes of real life. No access for him, any more so than the electric playhouse in the corner spewing. Both a one way glass.

Unreal, monotonous.

Days into weeks into months into years.

Waiting to be found.

He remembers.

Friendship.

Plenty, he thought. Perhaps he should have laid some crumbs, a trail back through his life.

He remembers.

Friends like ripe fruit, abundant, plucked from heavy branches laden. Perhaps he should have made some jam. For the hibernal months.



Darren Hopes