January the sixty second

It’s a symphony,
the pit a pat that’s
raining in on me
and the silence is
an awful blow
when I close
the bedroom

The Winter melody
makes the melancholy
and she said,
‘…just a spoonful..’
but the sugar never was as sweet
as being out there on the street
in the rain.

I take the medicine religiously
to make a finer man of me,
it’s taking time to filter through,

in the waiting room
there’s always poetry
I might try my hand at that.

© 2019, John Smallshaw.