Milk Bottle by Patricia Walsh

In some corner of a coloured street
I turn my gaze to the skateboards at hand.
Faster? Or better?  Not for me to decide
Staid in my seat, looking through a window. 

Nothing will wake me up, not even admonition,
an embarrassing lapse of concentration fulfilled.
Over the bridge, in safety assured
drooling on the desk, a noisy sleep disturbed. 

Needing alcohol, supplanting coffee
three spoons per cup won’t suit me.
Unmarked garda cars, Dublin registration
white as conscience, chase my transgression. 

This government feeds me.  Who am I to
question its intentions now and again?
Fearing the budget, eating my sentences
ahead of rebellion, a call to revolution.

A person in depth, will always carry some weight,
physical or otherwise, exiting currency.
Role models for the interim period,
castigating failure, evicting transgression. 

Negotiations over coffee, abroad truths, revealed
a razor for a horse, continuous washing
assuages the sins of the economic slump
a corner of a street not taken.

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