An English Cold

I heaved
On the 8th day of the week.
My body, stuffed with air and benzedrine.

It was an unnatural morning,
one of the many,
a stranger to sleep.
Laughing discreetly
at the glorious feeling
of not having to go to work.

Of not having to cross the countryside,
to the warehouse where I sell my time.
Of not having to see strangers in my lane,
chasing these east anglican skies.

on that day, death was where your sky was.
And I remember us playing on that abandoned stadium
at dusk.
I always loved disheartened places.
Cloudless climes and starry skies.
I remember us, around august country fires.
Lost airmen, waiting to land,
Last, of a fading generation.