Selected Poems
Brendan borrows some shoes
At midnight, Brendan invites himself into an empty cottage of a friend, away on holiday. He edits a “found” manuscript; his friend's first novel. His cross outs and outlines, inking into the margins. Brendan writes himself as new character, in a cameo appearance.
Brendan reclines by the fire, rolling up notes and new poems left on the end table. Crafted writing that is not his. He lights page after page, and pokes each one into a new fire to keep it going. He can hand cooks bangers to satisfy his unforgotten hunger.
Brendan is disciplined, waking at seven, hung-over or not, to start his own writing, Working without stopping for four hours, he fleshes out prisoners and screws like the ones he knew, Done, he prepares to get dressed to go to the pub, which opens at noon.
Brendan ferrets through the closets, under the bed borrowing some shoes and boots, for his mile overland journey, back to the pub. Each time a pair gets wet in the bogs, shucks and rain filled furrows. He slips on a dry pair, leaving the abandoned soggies
tied together in plain sight, to be claimed later, by the owner. A wild rovers trail left to town hung on lower branches or standing on stacked rock walls. Back to the pub, where he's the life of the party for a porter, prized champagne and sherry and of course, a song.
Dearest Brendan, I wish I could follow your footsteps, but can't. I'm left here awake at three AM in New York. Hours from now, I will punch in at work, being a good rule-following docker, awaiting the shift horn and my resurrection. I can't imagine there's no heaven.
