Monday, April 16, 2012


- John Burnside

It’s moments like this
when the barman goes through the back
and leaves me alone

a radio whispering
somewhere amongst the glasses
- I’m through with love -

the way the traffic slows
to nothing
how all of a sudden
at three in the afternoon
charcoal of woman alone at a bar
the evening’s already begun
a nascent

By ten I’ll be walking away
on Union Street
or crossing Commercial Road
in a gust of rain

and everyone who passes
will be you
or almost you
before it’s someone else.

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