The smashing of the heart as it hits the rocks below
and where do dreams go when the tears begin and
then we’re back to Faust or Freud, either tragic or annoyed
that we are in a play, but yesterday we were the script,
the words upon the bodies stripped and what fun until
the sun went down, the curtain fell, the ice-cream seller
gone only lollypop sticks stuck to the floor and
we don’t belong here anymore.
Tired of this
I kiss the cat goodnight.
© 2020, John Smallshaw.