Tony Bush Poet Verse

Sunday When It Rains

I think on Sunday when it rains 
And the print stains on my fingers, 
Profiled whorls of black and pink 
Whilst the dishes fill the kitchen sink 
And the scent of burning lingers. 

An avalanche of loss and gains, 
The clock reverses with a slowing, 
Time unravels, so it seems, 
Scudding backwards into dreams 
With no care of where it's going. 

I light the candles in my skull, 
Watch the smoke curl from the tapers, 
Thumbed and flared and dying out, 
Potato peelings flung about 
Poorly wrapped in Sunday papers. 

I think on Sunday, staring dull, 
But not too hard to understand it, 
How a childhood closes eyes, 
How it curls it's toes and dies 
As if somehow God had planned it. 

Those shaking hands and bloody rags 
Were the tissues for my tears, 
Keepsakes kept, not put aside, 
For however much I tried 
They remained my souvenirs. 

I played an endless game of tag 
By myself in quiet sorrow, 
I was "it" and only me, 
Just the way it had to be 
And will never change tomorrow. 

I cry on Sunday when it rains 
Unwanted hurt gestates unbidden, 
I have no one close to tell, 
If no one cares, it's just as well, 
Hold it in and keep it hidden. 

I die on Sunday when it rains 
In a haunt of screams and violence, 
When small coffin for a child 
Was my wish, I prayed and smiled, 
To find some safety, rest…and silence.

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