Burial at Pompeii

When they kill you for a
ten dollar bill will you
ask
for a receipt?

Along parquet floors in
stilettos
through doors into
rooms like the last room before.

What changes a day makes
to the dark left behind us
when the night cannot find us.

But they’re all ghosts in grey
all passing one way
with nothing more to say
to me.

It’s hard to know the truth
when they tell you
‘Future Proofed’ and you know
they don’t know
their arse from their elbow.

I’m giving up trying
concentrating on living
until it’s time that I
die in
your arms.

© 2019, John Smallshaw.