The Hidden Saint

The voices whisper of saints and sinners;
death and late dinners, penury and debits.
Eyes walking in the surf, looking for bikini wrapped
buttocks wet with perspiration and suntan lotion,
to kindle the long dead flame
that time has spilled away.

The surf breath a soothing song,
waving away the cracking sun staring
down my brain and piercing my darkness.
The voices whisper of landlord's calls,
wife's monthly divorce allowance,
dirty laundry lying on the kitchen sink
and last night's dinner still swirling in the toilet bowl.

The deck chair is stretched taunt with weight,
dark shades hide the scars of daily debauchery,
and the quaint novel, Things Fall Apart,
covered over the two days grey growth,
paints a proper picture.
and you think all sinners wear black
and allow saints have white halo on their head?