The Sunday stall still comes around like a vapid
dream, not that we’re up and at ‘em - we ceased
the ritual’s pretence some way back; these days
a leisurely lie-in almost lends credence though it
breeds shadowy hints of guilt-feeling - as if such
indolence will lead to imaginable catastrophes &
we’d best keep on our feet to combat ‘em; trying
to stay ahead of those inventions isn’t easy
But the ingrained idea we are meant to be some
where else, like at the Market selling fruit, isn’t a
figment of imagination, & there’s no lessening of
angst; th’ bloody market stall cross just won’t let
go you vex to no-one in particular - keeps me on
on the move because I don’t genuinely relax
© 14 February 2016, I. D. Carswell
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