New Field

The couch, empty, let out a sigh. It had been a long week and this was its final shift. A man emerged, sat, stood, a woman, up, down slide along its spine. Their naked bodies hammeered the couch into a box and the box into our minds. But we weren't here for the play. We were here for the party.

Outside, Jessica stopped me and tore off her shirt. Never one for clothes I was hardly surprised until she turned to reveal her back. Battered and bruised, it oozed. She'd been used and abused. Her spine broken then fused.

Is this what it takes?
To part the real from the fakes?
I hope not; she shakes.

what if

Sometimes paint, pen, and poetry all seem to be one artistry. If that's the key for me to see I'll happily pursue the three.

but what if it's not?