Poem 'Saturday Morning Dream'

Saturday Morning Dream

It was a case of mistaken identity.

They thought I was Teresa's farm boy

but I was grown up Jesus,

wrapped in a bed sheet and

chatting to the queen about

automatic front door locking;

clicking 'on' as you hit the front gate.

Walking away like Gandhi's shadow,

thin as a razor, sloping up the

wall of the biblical mud brick house,

banging into wooden horses;

standing in a field of concrete cows.

In the lorry, he's looking at me; mute.

I must pay attention; open the door and exit.