The lemon tree

If only to know it was Wednesday
and to stay under the duvet ’til Saturday,

These are my dreams at play
the hopscotch, one more notch because
I’m that dinosaur,

if only I could tear, tore, the sackcloth and ashes
I wear, wore for unresolved issues.

And then I misuse, confuse the language
where love becomes points on the market board.

I’m glad that I’m not yet awake
If it was so then how could I take
this feeling of emptiness,
but
empty or not
something is gnawing away at my gut,
hollowing me out.

Eventually when the sun rises I’ll be
a hologram
a hollow, shallow,
former shadow of a man
and
it’s still Wednesday.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.