Full time



They chatter on insanely,
ghosts in my head
who blame me
and
I look out through
whitewashed eyes
with
rosy cheeks and
listen to the lies
they tell,

They sell me hell in
no deposit
no return
glass bottles,
which you cannot burn.

But I can see him up above
sending telegrams to me all
filled
with hope and love and
he can shove them where
the sun don’t shine,

I hold on to my ghosts
they’re all mine.

At the final reckoning
it’ll be decided on
penalties,
so why worry.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.