Maybe This Time Next Year
Those taking care of you
Sneek a cigarette
On a side street
Should I be angry
I can't
Its their job
Like any other
The most horrible job
In the world
Holding still
A body already gone to god
But as long as the skin
Sits on your body
You are still my Mum
Waiting for us
Smelling the secondary smoke
Wishing
You could just have
That first draw
You could now
It wouldn't harm you
It wouldn't make any difference
We have so many questions
Without a home
Such is how death
Spells out such torment
The Summer is spilling out today
I am so sad to see the sun
I want it to pack up
And go away
Bring back the winters
The winters are cold
My body would fit in that sadness
Wrap me up
Bring me out
Maybe this time next year
Copyright © Jo Hayton | Year Posted 2009
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment