Poetry:

The Flight Back -

Was that you at the airport?

The back of your head,

the model’s walk of nonchalance and

the designer suitcase -

compliments of Mastercard?

Or maybe your were the one with

the Rayban glasses and the new hairdo?

You always liked your style,

to be the girl about town,

your blonde hair straight,

your ass causing whiplash and

your eyes so blue, they

could knock half the price from

a pair of leather boots.

Why does your ghost haunt me now?

Is it some significant date?

Like when we first made love,

or had a coffee, or when you

ordered the de-café cappuccino

with skimmed milk, and I

laughed until you got angry?

I tried to tell you that coffee’s coffee

and you accused me of being too

black and white.

Our fathers were alike.

We spent our childhood in bars,

eating crisps and drinking coke on

long Sunday afternoons.

It was where I perfected my pool skills,

and you, your loyalty to the old Galway,

and how we both learned to recognise

one of our own.

We saw men destroy themselves with drink

and hit their wives and beat

their children into submission

and fear and eventually love.

Yes, love for what we knew,

and the only ritual we came to understand;

the same thing we would one day search for

and try to change.

Was that you and I, in our college guise,

playing the middle class game with

the smell of cheese and onion

hardly gone from our breath?

We shared our dreams over Vodka

and orange and planned our future in

the back of the library.

The porter told us to shut up,

or get out, and even

your long eyelashes didn’t win

his sympathy.

We broke up over invented reasons

about priorities and pride and a mind game

that none of us could win. Each point

we scored was another long step past

the point of no return.

I love you, whatever it means now.

If it breaks the rules, who cares?

You once said the same to me and

I know you meant it.

The sun’s going down in Madrid,

I can’t decide if we verged along the

way, or were too stubborn to admit

we had a chance.

It’s been dark for an hour at home.

We should be here together.





 

 Winner of the Nostalgia Poetry Competition, ABCTales.com. 2008.