Another Michael
on the rim of a perfect
amphitheatre field with
a mound of gorse
behind our backs
and night settling us
side by side
two Michaels
pals at school
share their ears for
each other’s thoughts
gazing at the lone tree
rooted half way up the slope
I raphsodise of way out of here
this Ulster dump
where day is normal
unto day of trouble
our Troubles
reported on the TV
tea time local news
what future here I say
because it seems so clear
that somehow there must be
some way out of here
sudden and
I detect embarrassed
that I race on so far
for his tentative untrained daydreamerless melancholy
he adjusts his fringe parting it
carefully with two hands
and quietly replies you will go
you have it in you to leave
but I am going to be stuck here
what does it take to say that
at this fresh forming age
remember when we would stand
at the window on the top floor
of the English department
outside Sleepy Sam’s dusty
map of the British Empire room
we used to gaze out of the window
how old that building was
and talk of how
it all
was wrong
but I’m thinking
all we really talked about was love
his love
the mutton chopped
romantic lover
Lenoard Cohen
moody swamped
in the lightweight troubles of
what she thinks
and what she does
and how etcetera
loyal as a dog I listen and advise
perhaps she etcetera yes
and so on as our conversation
separated us into the realist
and the untried big talk fool
the night grew perhaps
a little chiller
and it was time
to return to the farmhouse
Famous Blue Raincoat
sincierely L Cohen