Waiting for the last finishing
line of the day; what are the odds
that this is a race worth running?
Which one will he be gunning for
at five to four or ten to three.
Unexpectedly, he’ll lean in,
growing shorter; ought to know now
that this counter is not bound by
his starting orders, so I’ll wait
and contemplate a ciggie break.
Did someone say he had a tip?
Because I’ve forgotten mine. —
Ian Miller 2014.
I thought I’d get a job in Switzerland
waiting tables, taking orders and
existing in a hole the Swiss permit,
but Rousseau must not have had it writ.
I’d sit and watch the water of the earth
spring forth and counter this employment dearth.
Yet water on its own cannot contain
the evolution of this reductive train
of thought: avoiding England’s harm
by overreaching Empire’s furthest arm.
It’s taken 24 hours to sink in,
as would a swimmer, with his goggles perched
on plugged nose, expect the dive. Goosebumped skin –
the tell-tale silhouette of the millstone.
The bard is lost to us. Only thinking
of him on a train, or in a field.
There’s no buoyancy in this afterthought:
Sean can get the drinks in (he’s been waiting)
and there’s so many fish still to be caught.
Somewhere far off, a stranger departed
before the last train home. I’ll spend some time
browsing on the District and Circle line.
I’ll find my place (it’s marked) where sunners lay
and sleep in moss while Seamus speeds away.