The trimmer

Who can be sure that the impurities of the night dreams have been erased by the coming of the day?

I wash using scented soap in the hope, somewhat forlorn, that
I am as clean as the day I was born.

There’s always a niggling doubt that there are more demons hiding inside me that I cannot wash out.

Thursday, of course, it would be and not only for me,
tomorrow is the winner,
home at three
cook some dinner
feet up time
and spin out a rhyme
or two,

that’s what I’ll do
how about you?

© 2019, John Smallshaw.