recessional

dawn bleeds by degrees
into my thoroughly modern bedroom
I wake up to wet socks
on the radiator, hissing
a ghost of cheap deodorant
keeps watch overhead

Sunday mornings are shit and I hate them

I kick my dream where it sits
stuck before its end
a jammed cassette tape, unspooling
its sand sifting south
to the space beneath my mattress
layering a rank sediment

my eternal soul made it through winter, just

blinking, I unknot myself
elbow a path, yawning
through over-crowded Purgatory
where fresh souls sit slumped
on plastic benches, watching
pulsing screens, ticker tape omens

Hell has been cancelled due to lack of enthusiasm