Sunday

Have a Beer, in the garden,

with my mate. 

No shoes, toes in the dirt. 

And then a joint as we chat away. 

The sun goes fades. 

The day gets Cold. 

Then we head inside,

and close the door.

Central heating on 21. 

Toes in the Rug, 

as I sit on the Couch, 

patting the cat. 

My mate leaves.

The light fades. 

I’m home alone. 

Dinner on my lap.

The television makes the room blue,

black enamel in the shadows. 

The fire burns in the hearth. 

red with energy flaming away. 

The detectives’ eyes, look out from the screen

"Somebody else is murdered

in the street. Beaten to death,

so it would seem. What to do? 

Gather evidence, close the case.

Death is close, in the city tonight.

Just another Sunday coming to a close.