Throwing stones at street lamps for a laugh
you cover my mouth & I scream when the glass
shatters, night smell of tobacco on your fingers.
At the bar you turn your back & I lose my place
forget the rules, me behind you, elbows in the ashtray
making promises with ice & a slice. If you buy the next round
walk me home in my suede pixie boots two sizes too small
we can chase down the night bus past the bridge where Wayne died
jumping trains. Unlucky you say because you’re wild & immortal.
But boys don’t read signs they rewrite rules then vanish as dawn sidles up
leaving grass stains & blisters when the pubs empty. I walk the last mile alone,
night smell of metal on my fingers. The Galtymore club flashes
shamrock neon & four of them are cologne-drenched
at the corner, lurching hands grab my crotch my hair,
last orders before closing time gents. A smoke & quick grope
I take my place, coat peeled open, their laughter careening off my skin
as they make the last bus. Lucky, you would say with your back turned.
This is how it is.