Sunday

I have a beer, in the garden,

with my mate, Joe. 

No shoes, toes dug into the dirt,

and then a joint as we chat away,

expertly rolled. 

The sun goes, fades. 

The day gets cold, brrr. 

We head inside,

and close the door.

Turn the central heating to full. 

I slide my toes into the rug, 

as I slide back onto the couch, 

and the cat crawls into my lap,

I can feel his purring vibrating my leg. 

We drink tea, and talk shit,

that marijuana has hit.

Joe leaves,

he has things to do,

which he wants me to do too.

Shrug? I don’t know?

I didn’t want to go.

The light fades. 

I’m home alone. 

I eat dinner on my lap,

just for one.

I forget to put the lights on,

as I often do, when it’s just me.

Why? What for? No one has to see,

there is no one to do that.

The television makes the room blue,

black enamel in the shadows. 

The detectives’ eyes, look out from the screen

"Somebody else is murdered

in the street. Beaten to death,

so it would seem. Blunt force.

What to do? I’m on the edge of my seat.

They gather evidence, and close the case.

Death is close, in the city tonight.

The fire burns in the hearth,

I lit it earlier, when the heat 

went out of the day,

when I felt the first shiver of night.

It burns with red flames, orange and white. 

Just another Sunday night,

The weekend is over now.

Carnage, is not far away,

Monday morning

just hours to go.

Still, it was nice

to see Joe.