Sundays

 I remember

How we’d make

So-called plans,

Like go to the cinema

Or for a stroll by the Thames

But stay in bed instead.

Where we’d drink

And scream

Out act sordid sexual dreams

You know,

Those kind of things.

 

I remember

How you’d give me

The hump, by sending

Me down to the shop,

To get you some

King Rizzla,

Cos you loved a puff,

Christ, you loved

A puff…

 

I have screamed

Your name,

While standing

On a football terrace

And the forty thousand

People, remained oblivious

To my cry.

 

We get on buses

To nowhere, then slowly

Return, walking past

The churchgoers

In their Sunday best suits.

And I still use your photo

As a bookmark.