55 word short prose

The Love Song of A.M. Hitchen (with a tip of the hat to T.S. Eliot)

Twice weekly for a year she drives past the taxidermists' and can't help but see the stiffened formaldehyde mammals on display. She would not pursposely choose this route - it is necessary. She is broken and physiotherapy has become her religion. She touches her rigid back and thinks of the animals: hardened, immobile.
Perpetual inertia.