Best not to start again

and again and… if

you’re wrongly placed;

best maybe to leg-it-

best say, hitchhike

to the ferry, catch

the overnight, sleep-drowse

on a squelch

of lumpen sweated

squeaky-rancid

plastic seats –

imitation airport –

and greet the dawn like

a still-drunk farmer

choking for another Guinness

before the long drive

home westward to the last

gaunt cows

in the top field, where

the old songs blow across

your face like banshees,

or like the breath

of Annie when she

first kissed you full-on

after the funeral

of Uncle Frank

god rest his soul,

who died swearing

he’d reformed

and was ready to

give it another go.

Let’s pray that worked

for him

wherever he is.

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