Sunday Morning

Put the hammer down, sir,
and step away from the skill saw.

This is a good neighbourhood
on a Sunday. We like to sleep,

wake slow to the hollow notes
of dawn, the tripping toes light
against the corrugated roofs
of lean-tos; a fresh wind
kicking the can along the tarmac;
a distant rattle of saucers,
tea cups, coffee spoons; a cough
from another room.

All this is good.
Put the fucking hammer down, sir.

3 thoughts on “Sunday Morning”

  1. It has nothing to do with your poem, but that final line reminds me a little of the classic in the 70s six-part thriller, Out. Frank Ross, jailed for a crime he did not commit, finally catches up with the man who set him up. He corners him in a room, and as the man backs up to a wall, Frank pulls out a large revolver and says: I can hear your arsehole tightening, Tony.

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