Hopping on and off
the city tour bus.
Halfway across the city
reading Omeros
on the way back,
a lover waiting
by the spire.
What is Dublin
but the man
who came up
to me on the bus
slurring, rum-coke
on his breath
and said go down
to Grafton, my girl.
Good music down there
today. Nobody in this city
should ever be sad.
YOU ARE READING
Doux
Poetrythe walls with blued body scents soft on the skin, the curtains drawn and a lover asleep close by. ...
