Sundays

Sundays.
Baths poured and left to go cold,
endless cups of Coffee and tea,
thoughts of visits to the pub, free Vodaphone weekend calls.
The whole screaming lot of us
(for the most part) indoors.

During the afternoon the rain fell
And I had a flashback, those damned things I said last week,
Slipped in through the gap in alcoholic haze.

A photograph of a little boy bouncing on a trampoline
And a voice inside uncontrollably rings out apology to mother.

Is it true, the only truth left is hatred
and love is all just lies?

Sundays.
Baths poored and left to grow cold.
One week more on raging.