Some days, when the rubbish of your life sticks to your ankles,
you have to be ready for the other stuff that cuts you free,
like not running for the bus but catching it anyway,
or that man who stood in the aisle; proposed to his girlfriend
then sidled back down in his seat saying:
Nah, you’re alright. Only joking.
Or that blessed time passing the golden arches
when not one kid started up the prayerful chant.
Going by The Swan - the odd gift of accordion and squeezebox,
the base trombone’s absent-minded humming, Lannigan’s Ball
slipping out through the door. And later, leaving the Nelson,
there was that old man you hadn’t spoken to,
who waved and said goodbye
as though you were neighbours.
© Rosie Garner
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