Postcards

Tomorrow,
Tomorrow is Sunday.
Glorious, glorious
Sunny Sunday
(Probably).
I think I shall
Get up in time
To see the sun
(Whatever little there is).
I think I shall
Go find a cafe
On a busy street
And hope my coffee
Is a starburst
Of perfect bitterness;
Tarty pleasure-pain.
I shall pull out
A sheaf of Postcards
And I shall write
Dear----
I have been missing you
Edinburgh is beautiful today.
I wish I could show you
How are things over there?
I'll address one to my
Father- tell him
'I thought of you
at Westminster
I cried at the grave
Of the unknown soldier.'
I thought of you.
One will go to a girl,
Who cares so much
One will go to a boy,
Who makes me cry
One to a girl who,
Keeps my heart
One to a boy,
Unexplainably loved.
One to a woman,
Who taught me myself
One to a boy,
Who makes me laugh
Another to a boy
Who makes me think - too much.
There are dirty dishes
Spread across the kitchen
There is hoovering
That needs be done.
I forgot to take the
Trash out- again.
My room is alight
With chaos- like my life.
Plans to be made-
Stretching to infinity
But I think
Tomorrow,
I shall go out
And write a few,
Postcards.