Runway number four

I wake to wingtips spreading out from fingers wrapped around a gun, the Sun decides to rise and risk my wrath,

Monday blasts away and I’m shot down here to London, not like my home town but close enough with traffic comes and sleeping dogs that try to wake the sleeping policemen,

Kentucky, pizza, ham and cheese, save me from the double decker, a diet coke will do me please.

Rubbish everywhere and rubbished everywhere I go
my second home’s a rubbish bin, throw your trash out, move on in,
a tin of ten percent will set me straight, never too early but it might be too late
so I’ll take a can or two and what’s a man to do to get served around here?

and the wingtips float above the ground in the silence of that greater sound which dances through my dreaming night
it’s Monday and I’ll be alright
I only need some coffee.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.