Black Sea, palm tree dreams,
recorded Springsteen’s Badlands,
philosophic gift to a lover
borrowed from your room mate,
when you lived on a street named for lanterns.
Wrapped in your long black coat,
cross the city underground,
through heavy draped doorways,
nuzzle into smoke, and hot grog.
timeless sailors, reluctant to approach,
as if they knew something steel hidden in your pocket.
The last time you were here -
making cigarettes for a lover
borrowed from your room mate.
conversation a blur. Cinema forgotten,
unburdened in a room above the kiosk.
all sense of betrayal excused by adventure…
Next morning, walking home
dry steel footsteps echo,
as even you found yourself
believing in what you knew was not
and calling it love.
by pd lyons
pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk
ireland
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