This Old House
Paris is in the rearview mirror. All that’s left of it is a water-damaged photo.
Does it matter who dumped who when things turned sideways?
You found me that night, on the bridge, plugging in to a protected power cable.
I later learned about the filthy garbage bin you picked up off of the side of the street.
We discarded our forever to escape beige walls.
But now my circuits are fried. And grimy germs had to be scoured from your pipes.
Castaways. The walls are still beige.
Maybe with rewiring and new plumbing we could try playing house again?
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the reflective host of Friday Fictioneers.