in Uncategorized 198 Words

The Lost Dragon

Got on the bus. Something cheery was exchanged. ‘Going in two minutes’ said the driver.

Then off the bus, the door hadn’t even closed. On the pavement I roar, hands on knees, bent to the ground. Raised a hand to the driver — not his fault and sorry — then the trudge home. No wallet.

The wallet is on the piano stool, neatly with other items, as though awaiting orders. All these ploys, all for nothing. There’s always something.

Yet the outward crises — cries — banal, everyday, pathetic, feel like only the outward signs. The iceberg tips. Or the rusted and dying leaves and un-succulent fruit of an unsteady tree. (I see a dragon, no, more an Old English worm, a dragon-worm, not big, a worm-dragon, coiled in the roots. Around a — what, what’s hidden? A treasure, but not a common currency, it’s of worth only to me. A lead soldier, a copper coin, a silver ring. I can’t see into that dark heart).

Pick up the wallet, plunge it roughly (in punishment for its misdemeanour) into one or other inside pocket. Another bus passes on the way back to the bus stop.

the lost dragon

Leave a comment