#47 - We Are Closed Every Tuesday

So Herman returns on Wednesday
at 9am sharp, having spent the night

constructing his complaint out of driftwood
and reclaimed timber. He has fixed it to four wheels

and tugs it along the pavement on a bit of twine.
One of the wheels sticks a bit.

He bangs on the door with the heel of his fist,
pug-nosed against the frosted glass,

his complaint compliant at his heel like a wooden horse,
like a little pig.