When the light pokes through

As soon as the bells rang I knew it was Sunday,

pray for me, she said, after killing me in bed
and waking with a hangover I leaned over
and kissed her.

It was Sunday all day, no rest for the righteous
and less for the wicked, but wicked means good
or so they say,
which is like oranges being the new tangerine,

it all slips away when she says, pray for me,
a revolving dream on an inner screen to
which I’ve been invited.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.