The Misbegotten

Written by: jan oskar hansen

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. DidnĀ“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.