Bucketing
Here’s the third of my five poems on leaving Dublin.
I know this Dublin well;
it’s pouring or ‘bucketing’.
I’ll get up with the light,
make a special breakfast
as if for me and my love.
I’ll haste to get ready,
as had I a lover,
whose forehead i’d kiss, and say,
sombrely, breathlessly,
“I miss you already”.
a pint on tap
Here’s the second of my five poems on leaving Dublin, where I’ve lived for the past 11 years. Sort of.
Two days ago now,
I left the tap on.
After half an hour
I discovered this.Yesterday, bad too:
I burnt a pan black –
I’d forgot that too.Last night, drunk and blue,
“forgot” to say “bye”
or “I’m leaving now”.
Feeling selfish, I,
not digging the tunes,
stole to a taxi –
asocial baboon.Now that time is here:
Groceries have dates,
usually on top,
that are redundant
(I’ll be gone by then).
For example: beer.But a pint on tap
is for drinking now,
or for drinking then.
“Goodbye Dublin town!”,
I might burp and say,
if I’d know that pint
were the last I may.But, instead, I’m dumb;
It’s become my way.
Lidl, Thomas Street
This is one of five poems I’ll write as a farewell to Dublin (doctor’s orders).
I stand
for Lidl Quality,
more and more each month.I am
sitting now on their shelves in boxes,
waiting to exist:
Brown bread,
Bebida Soja, tinned tomatoes.Gladly
I picture myself at my last meal,
before I go off
(abroad).