Poem 445

Sunday evening was traditionally when you got the ‘quality’ English television – this is Jill and I enjoying the escapism – but immediately afterwards the weekend news round up would come on, returning us to reality abruptly …

( I like the image of the tv hanging open and the rhyme on worth of searches … )

Sunday Night Drama

I love you
watching the tv play
about the young man and the older woman
on the ocean cruise
and how she dissolves into tears
after an hour
and says she loves him
and he makes a bloody Noel Coward fool
of himself
and stops drinking
all for love
and they freeze finally a half inch short of a kiss
to suffer the indignities
of the credits
while we here you leaning against my knees
make up for them
     and the tv left hanging open
starts to fetch up the torments of the day
any Sunday's worth of searches
of waste

the ship's going over the horizon
     and the feeling
leaving us hanging
on