Hot Tea, No Shoes, Radio

By Sam Dineen

The grey has hazed over 
In the sixth month of Sundays
Hot tea, no shoes, radio.
The warmer days 
Feel further away 
Getting dressed- nowhere to go. 

The Christmas incoming is closer now,
Than the last one we had passed.
The summer is slipping out of reach, 
I’m going nowhere fast.

Hot tea, no shoes, radio. 
Small comforts behind closed doors.
Dry hands, long phone calls, no destination walks,
Remembering things from before. 

Department stores, sore feet, wet hair, heavy bags
Packed pubs and sardine can buses. 
Kisses hello, kisses goodbye,
Shared drinks, long queues, laughter, parades,
Borrowed lighters, calling taxis, spilling drinks, 
Long days, long nights, 4am chips
And coming home after it all-

Waking up the next morning, 
Sunday- Nowhere to go
Hot tea, no shoes, radio.


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