In a pickle jar

Sirens blaring away and I open my eyes still thinking it’s Saturday, I
dreamt that Gulliver’s travels was the bible and that disturbed me more than the sirens.

Finding Sunday was easy
the evangelist drinking holy wine
pointed the way,
her fingers smoked as
if the cigarette was still there,
but probably just some memory
of a former life.

Soon I’ll be compos or compost
lost to Mother nature or wise
like Solomon,
soon is like a ball of string,
one never knows how long
it will be until it’s unwound.

Sirens are still sirens even when
they’re quiet.

© 2019, John Smallshaw.