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on my usual after-midnight reconnoiter of the Bus Stop To Nowhere (aka the smoking shed), i lit up one in the glare of the sodium vapour lights that reflect on the brackish puddles atop the concrete. leaning against the metal supports, to my right a lone tree frog (who had mistakenly found solace on the side of the building) sang his minuscule throat muscles out to the tune of his friends in the flood plain, behind. they'd just found their voices after the day-and-night long torrent lost momentum. this transported me to a more unpleasant remembrance. a friend's home, years ago. the converted garage that served as their bar-cum-den of iniquity. someone passed around a twisted cigarette, the contents of which were originally prescribed for equine ailments, laying in wait among the more docile ingredients. cue the freight train heartbeats, the acute paranoia, the incredulity that some asshole would ply their prescriptions on the unwary. i felt my way through the house to find a perch of sanity on the front porch, only to be regaled with the maddening chorus of what must surely have been a million frogs concealed in the night-obscured poplars. singing an H.P.Lovecraft opera for the coming of unspeakable, ancient evil. this tale of survival should be a comfort. something there has been precious little of. |
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