About a million years ago and probably longer now.
The town hall clock which still ran on Victorian time,
caked with grime and the droppings of
raggedy arsed urchins
struck nine.
I was watching breakfast television,
something new or was when it was new
now
it’s getting old and like the milk on the kitchen
drainer turning sour.
Sunday
the righteous pray,
I pay lip service
and
they charge me ten percent
which I suppose isn’t too much
to stay in touch.
© 2020, John Smallshaw.
