Greasy Fall Leaves, Part 2
Tapping toes to tinker reels
and whinging babies the railcar urged
to the south, a sick dog,
and lost pace on the rain heavy leaves
the leave laced irons sticking us with
a nature of devilment clear from Dundalk to Dublin.
Girl clasp my hand as we shuffle down
these trip-stone streets, make me under
your class umbrella
and I'll wander for days
or until your camera sings its dirge or
the damn sun yawns again
bleaching the rip-tide streets that
just a click ago we strode up under
your gas umbrella.