Day in and out it stands on the corner, alone and overlooked. Mangy dogs bring promise of company, but that fleeting interaction always ends in further disgrace. At night, nobody comes to offer protection, a warming blanket, a word of empathy. Inside the staunch shell, pressure builds. Eventually, it cracks: at first with a little salty tear, then with a fluid stream of inconsolable anguish.
Or it could just be a leaky valve.
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And they say the suicide rate’s the highest around Christmas. Somebody better keep an eye on the guy. For some reason I figure he’s male–trying as hard as he is to hold it all in. 🙂