The Crowd

There were always three, at least, climbing into bed.
When I screamed and turned over, they all fell out:
father, Jesus, child in one distracted mind.
There were always four, or a few more, climbing into bed.
and then add my crowd, the sprightly dead,
on those nights when we coupled and just lost count
of a congregation climbing into bed
till I screamed, turned over and pushed them out.

Peter Adair

If you have any comments on this poem, Peter Adair would be pleased to hear from you.