Dinner on Sunday by John Tustin

When I die
They will still have their dinner on Sunday
All together
And talk about the people
Who don’t attend.

When I die
You will pretend it never happened.
No one in your life will know
And once you will cry
When you are alone.

When I die
There are only two people
Whose reaction is a mystery to me.
But does that matter if I am dead?

When you die
They will still have their dinner on Sunday
All together
And they will talk about you
But they’ll never talk about us
Except in winking insinuations.

I slobber on my pillow in my sleep
And dream about being missed

By you,

By two,

By anyone.

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.