Escaping the Twelfth
As we rush through the Annaghloe countryside
I hear some luggage drop to the floor
A meaty snap on a quiet bus
with only two students, the driver and me,
and a woman pressing close to my side.
And the lady on the left leans into my left
with her European tanned face yawning
and the book she was reading
hanging out of her hand
like so much exotic fruit falling.
And the letter I'm writing lies dead in my lap
while my hand sweats in damp recognition
pen fixed, muscles limp
my apologies, guileless, unborn,
my eyes held hostage by the woman snoring
and the figures in hoods gradually emerging
hands reaching for cans, rocks, the unknown;
we speed through red lights
I ask to get off, but meet
the driver's casual, factual dismissal.