Neatly into the back pocket of a pair
Of cheap jeans.
Yellowed fingers with the first signs
Of cancer, can’t wait for another cigarette.
Coins fumbled into a machine,
Somewhere in Southern France.
A Monday evening in another country
Feels like no evening at all.
Like the thirsty traveller, who has thrown the
Compass into the sea, because he has no need.
There’s a smell of sea, that’s driving up
From the Lough. The wind carries it and after
It sometimes comes the rain.
The cats have called round for food.
I think I’ll call the new one Clarke.
With the first beer of the evening and the smell
Of a sly smoke at the bottom of the garden.
I become alive again.
I’d pretend I was somewhere else,
But there’s nowhere I’d rather be.
There’s a small road that has a lane.
There’s a car parked. Slightly rushed looking.
Pushed into the small gateway.
There’s a man looking down the lane towards
A gate. This is how I spend my day.
There’s a woman that walks. She frightens me.
I see her on every road. She must know me by now.
I think maybe I should wave.
These photographs, they are, from somewhere else.
I’m eighteen years old, sitting outside Penn Station.
Reaching into my bag, looking for a map.