The breaking of Baxter

Sometimes the phonograph thinks it’s an old photograph and the man in the cape on the bridge is me and sometimes I can be quite obscure like when I’m leaning on the railings blowing kisses at all my failings as I watch them fall away,
the wax disc revolves as my own life dissolves into sepia tones.

Reconstituted, the phonograph muted, the lights flicker on and everything’s gone but for the man in the cape on the bridge and he awaits his fate like he’s waiting for a number nine bus.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.