Friday, 9 August 2013

Last Call

Here be's a poem type thing, though it's really just re-formatted prose.

Last Call

The auld lad’s still sitting there, arms spread, broadsheet between and
Ma goes by screaming ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the iron’s still on!’
Horsed clothes, creased as da’s Irish Times, waiting to be pressed and folded
In just a year they’ve greyed, steps a fraction slower
Only a few words at dinner
Quietly loaded
Finally a decent pint of black and I almost forget the settle
Dark brown thunder rolling under white cloud
Old friendships, hard fought, fingers gripped around a neck
Stout stained lips shouting and balling ‘Any young ones?’
And sure you make something up for the tale of it
These two are having a baby
She’s off in England
Sure he went off the bridge
Then the light fades away and comes back
I haven’t been here in a year
The light fades away and comes back
A feeling as if I’d never left
The light fades away and comes back
One last chance
Fades away and comes back

Fades away and comes back

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