ITS SUNDAY O CLOCK, DIANE

i sleep, Diane

but without rest.

i dream, Diane

but without permission.

i drink, Diane

but only tea.

another Sunday, Diane

last night exploding like Sarajevo

and

i

sat

in calm and yawning,

panic

only three old thoughts away.

i'm a jigsaw, Diane

rammed together - there was no clear picture to follow
and

the

weak

cardboard

shapes, Diane, had to be

twisted and
torn and 
forced.

its a mess, Diane

its a picture of me.

its another Sunday, Diane - put the kettle on

i

need

more

calming tea.