Off the Beaufort

You’ve been standing in one place too long and your voice has gone hoarfrost strong, dripping with ice almost nice but sexy in that frosty kind of way.

I’m moving the burner to the next turn I get to
you can come along for the ride.

The Monk prays like hell in an eight by four cell
and I do the same,
because
it’s not the size that matters.

Sunday
and that time
for lunch.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.