Sleeping bag

Jesus is in the sleeping bag
stopping over.
He comes round any time he likes
right time, wrong time
he don't mind.
Foxes have holes
birds have nests
but the Son of Man has the sofa.

He's poking round the fridge
which needs defrosting.
Old sins stuck in the icebox
fruit gone bad
leftovers still left over
he throws them out.
I guess I should clean up
but I never get much warning.
It's embarrassing
but still I'd rather he came.

We sit up late talking
where we've been
and where we're going next.
He's already bought the tickets
all I have to do is take the time off work.
New trainers on the floor
goodnight rustle in the corner.
The room feels warmer
with him in it.