Sackcloth

You come to me,
eyes like a bruised sky,
cherubs in your pocket,
beg my forgiveness.

Time is on my side,
the Stones sang.
I hum it off key.
Time has about-faced
and you want me again, but

how many nights
do I hit instant replay
before I see you're not
coming back, that groveling
never was your style, or
that my dreams are only
tempests sackcloth
is sewn from.


Pris Campbell
©2010





Art: Chagall: Rest

One of 10 poems selected to feature
in The Poet's Digest 2013



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