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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Dec 2019
The trimmer
Who can be sure that the impurities of the night dreams have been erased by the coming of the day?
I wash using scented soap in the hope, somewhat forlorn, that
I am as clean as the day I was born.
There's always a niggling doubt that there are more demons hiding inside me that I cannot wash out.
Thursday, of course, it would be and not only for me,
tomorrow is the winner,
home at three
cook some dinner
feet up time
and spin out a rhyme
or two,
that's what I'll do
how about you?
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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Weeping willow
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