The Sunday Poem, by Hayden Pyke

The Sunday Poem, by Hayden Pyke

Alexa, call for help The tyre’s flat, the lights could be faultythe combustion engine not fullytuned to the outside world, a radiatoror worse clogged with trauma, watchingyour father slam his dinner plateinto the ground, tomato saucesplatters that could be blood andsome of them are, a muffler unhingedand dragging along the groundyou are dragging me along the groundI have lost tears, lost teeth, lost youand I don’t know if I should call yoursiste…