The market like a fishing net. The market at the surface. The market arching from a crane. The people like flapping fish. Squirming, slipping, sliding over and over and under and over. Opening their mouths for air.
The sky like an empty stove. Red hot and ready to burst.
The sky like an alert. The sky needs a pan.
“My darling” she said, rubbing the stains of a shirt with a butter-coloured bar of soap, “No matter how small you are, you will always have your father’s shoulders. You can look all horrors in the eye and they will never forget you.”
She checked the coin return slot of the arcade machine and walked out through the sliding doors. I’ll never forget that walk. That carefree stride with a backing of Everybody Hurts.
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The flowers are lilies today and they are replaced every day and that makes me smile and I wonder who does that. This is the room of flowers because there are flowers on the mantlepiece too. Under that, a flat screen TV and games console and pretend homework out on the dinner table with pens and exercise books and a fake spilled glass of water.