Ode to the Smoking Futon

a storm cloud

on a november morning

when the smoke of solitude

would rise and request refuge

we fused like candy 

forgotten in a car 

melted and mangled 

into one    

less than functional

unsturdy when unfolded

yet consistent in

comfortable escape 

now beside the road

unwanted and unfound 

like chewed gum

atop the asphalt