Guinness at The Priory.
beside the old riverbed, long gone,
rows of steel, cold; a galloping in passing,
thoughts of past lives, done, anon
and mine merge,
hours into thirty, fresh as a newborn,
wondering how, and why, a smile—
(the priory likely sat just by the road bend);
I’m fine, I feign—
dates had here, late, cute, thinly veiled,
takis on my mind, by selfish rain—
strange futures, strange tears in a stupor, as
a half-pint reclines.