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Sunday morning

Once again the father shouted; bellowed out his blackened rage.
The flat was small and angular; a brightly lit suburban cage.
The mother lit a cigarette, her ears beating like her heart.
And in the corner sat their children: being quiet; being smart.

Then the shouting turned to screaming, followed by a deathly silence.
In the background, television commented on worldwide violence.
Toys lay scattered everywhere, silence reigning on and on.
Even Action Man said nothing – all his bravery had gone.

Sundays often passed this way; hopeless emptiness and pity.
Revolutionary Road exists in every town and city.
And most of us who live this way are stuck with children, husbands, wives.
Feeling trapped in knowing that we’re leading imitation lives.

But what of all our dreams and wishes? Did we have to give them up
Just because we said “I do” and drank from God’s eternal cup?
Yes we do – we swore an oath. “For better or for worse,” we said.
Love and honour, sickness, health – until the day we end up dead.

And here I sit and write this poem, barefoot, just above their heads,
Whilst, to their left and right, their other neighbours may be in their beds.
And we all hear it, we all listen, taking comfort in their sorrow,
Grateful that we still have time to make our dreams come true tomorrow.

But tomorrow never happens so beware the misconception
That our freedom’s bound to marriage vows and proper contraception.
If we say ‘tomorrow’ to the dream, we’ll never do it,
And our life will gallop past us as we wander blindly through it.





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