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rubber-soled boots meld into scalding puddles

words harvested for rainy days

leak through umbrella roofs and tunneling coat pockets,

disqualifying memorial programmes.

a sewer drain backlog of suboptimal nonsense

furthers commitment to the memory of you

putting roses to bed in hollow grave plots;

the bell tolls for the unreliable catholicism.

woven rosaries spun on finger looms

summon the false prophet divinity,

manifesting in the form of you.

sparing change from porcelain pigs

shaken, not stirred, until the swine regurgitates

open secrets bridged over by a papier-mâché of hush money

exhaling claustrophobia amidst the mahogany podium,

reciting your age-old pre packaged fables

your head bows in shame, not out of courtesy.

blasphemy is reflected in silver plaque adornments

embellished in my false hope and unavailing patience

when you're told "it'll only be a minute"

it doesn't stop you tallying up overtime hours

i miss the way you used to miss me...