The first poem in Leonard Cohen’s posthumous book The Flame made me laugh. Not because the lyrics are especially funny (although there are touches of Cohen’s characteristic wry humor), and not because the poem is foolish (it’s quite good)...
No car to drive to the dump and too embarrassed to borrow one, you scrape the black mold off the underside as best you can, muscle it onto your shoulder. Spores multiplied to the size
