Paul Grant

 

 

There is something more

Mostly now
I want to
Slit the throat
Of every sunset
Then stroke its cheap bleached hair
And tell it
Everything will be ok

Sometimes
This sadness is
So sweet
That all you can do
Is smile
As the tingle
Moves all through you
As you remember
How beautiful
Up is

So I wait
At train stations
In the rain,
Sure that’s romantic,
Tell myself
The next train
The next one

And as they close up
For the night
I’m a small boy
Hearing thunder
For the first time
And looking for his father
As all the lights
Go out.

 

 

 

Paul Grant is a cleaner who sometimes writes.  http://writingknightspress.blogspot.com/2017/06/a-feast-of-salt-by-paul-grant.html

 

 

 

 

 

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