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Sunday's Game

A simple plan, I hold my breath
while we wait for reasons,
or a change of seasons.
Fairylights glisten and I listen
for your heartbeat,
or trains in the distance.

It seems like years since we laughed.
Since we danced in the haze
of heat-drenched skies,
spinning merriment in our eyes,
wielding knives like knights in battle.
competing for the victory prize.

And your face lit by the firefly glow
in your garden through the hedgerow.
A wary, wondrous place to be
like a luscious poppy field sea.
Red like eyes waiting for the race,
or a Bloody Mary dressed in lace.

Waiting still--worried, weary.
Leaving you bereaved.
Through the heaving of your chest
I know when best to leave,
to resign from this champion game--
the little Grand Prix.

Here comes the last train, and while we wait
we leave our reasons by the gate,
with a message on the window pane,
washed clean by the acid rain.
The swingers dance the night away
light-post lit with moth wing spirits
They stop in for a Sunday prayer
and we strain our ears to hear it

They're off and running down the track
The drone of the engine wanes
I retreat to read the last good-bye
upon the window pane.
And all it said through the streaks of red
was "I love someone else instead".

Sunday's Game
Poetry
2009