The foam has swollen with November rain,
a heavy, grey sponge smelling of wet dog
and the ghosts of a thousand bad decisions.
A single copper coin is fused to the fabric,
green as a bruised plum.
A cigarette butt is buried in the seam,
a small, white bone in a velvet grave.
The sky is the color of wet concrete,
and a pigeon lands on the armrest
with an eye like a rusted bead.
I sink for a moment into the cold,
tasting the metallic tang of the wind.
It feels like a hug from a dead relative
who only ever lied about their salary.