The Misbegotten

The Misbegotten On the middle of the bridge we leaned on its railing and looked into at the slimy, green and slow running stream. Its bank decorated by plastic bottles, used condoms, a long since dead dog, yet grinning as recalling a filthy joke and a three month old abortion, half eaten by discerning water rats. Over this beauty of decay hung a reluctant, pale sun refusing to lend light to this polluted river scene. First time we came here the water was clear, we could see fishes and you held my hands, she said. My hands were cold, spat into the filth below, dug them deep into my pockets, hunched my shoulders and began walking. Didn´t bother telling her that our love was like a river burdened by too much debris. All we have in common is our shared solitude, but that is a dad better than being alone.