She’s gone to sleep
Again, as she
Often does, but
This time on a
Train. Maybe she

Dreams of distant
Isles, bright sunshine
Beaches, clothed in
A bright green, ***
Gripping, skimpy

Bikini and
Surrounded by
To die for men,
Or maybe she
Dreams of her first

Date, the bought for
Her flowers, the
Big box of chocs,
The quick given
Kisses and the

Mismanaged ****
Or perhaps she
Dreams of the lost
Baby and the
Last long hold, or

Maybe she dreams
Of her husband
Beating her up
As he often
Did and leaving

Her out in the
Midnight’s cold, or
Perhaps she dreams
All these dreams in
Disorderly

Sequence like some
Nightmare show, all
Mixed up, drawn out
And slow. She’s gone
To sleep in a

Train, full of dark
Sorrow as she
Often is, so
Maybe she’ll not
Wake up again.