Comments about Chatem Mercedes
Everyone has a crying bench.
mine was a cement block at a port on the bend of a deep narrow river.
abandoned and possibly condemned,
much like me.
this place was probably beautiful once, yet still forgotten.
I would sit on the cold cement gazing blankly at the polluted water.
I wasn't alone.
I sat with paranoid addicts hiding in their cars with their lighters and sunken faces.
hookers offering twenty dollar blowjobs behind the rusted dumpsters.
thin stray animals once loved but lost or thrown away.
I'd sit and think of my ...