Thirty denier

There’s the moment as your eyelids flicker just before they open
when the strands of last night’s dreams are trying hard to close the shoe box
that they hide in during daylight hoping nobody will notice
they’re alone.

The steam continues rising from the coffee and the image of a lady in red
wellingtons strolls slowly past the window where you’re sitting, but she smiles at someone else who walks a poodle in the morning,
they’re alone.

The newspaper gets folded into fifteen squares of nowhere and it’s all a bit
depressing so you take the number nineteen
stopping off at Manor house because you know you’ve gone the wrong way and the old man serving ice cream gives a look that freezes sunshine,
they’re alone.

And again the eyelids flutter, waiting for the dream to step outside the shoe box where it’s waiting
like a butterfly on acid
and the night blows candy lollipops,
you’ll suck on them tomorrow,
you’re alone.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.

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