(15/07/56 / Curragh Camp, Co. Kildare, Eire.)

Keeping My Thoughts To Myself

I’ve got a poem
on my brain

but nothing
with which

to write
it with

as I pass Tottenham Hotspur’s
football ground.

A police horse
polices the pavement

all straw & shit
strange in this suburban
setting.

It’s hooves clattering
sounding exactly like

two coconut
shells clapped together

to suggest THE LONE RANGER
on some old 50’s/60’s radio show.

The horse snorts:
“Hey...poet...over here! ”

“Yeah...whatsamatter
ya never saw a talking horse before? ”

“Of course...of course...and you
call yourself a poet? ”

“Couldn’t you just make me up
for your poetic purposes? ”

“Alright...alright...I’m here now anyway
so go on with your poem! ”

“I’ll remember it
for you! ”

“Now how
does the first line
(come on... come on...do I have to read your mind!)
...go again? ”

“Something something or other
about her beauty

that hot summer night
as the front clasp
of her

intricately laced bra
is released

& the beauty
of her breasts

rest on your open palms
like the gift they are

revealed
to all the world

sunlight & leaves
playing about her nipples

Her laughter
a flock of birds

written across the loveliness
of this eternal evening

etc., etc., etc.
and so on and so on
and so forth and
so forth.”

The horse falters
shies away at the suggestiveness

of the coming
Verse

but the lines are taken up

by the crowd
(excited now)

“Who are ya...who are ya! ”

surging forward
& taking up the chant:

“Sunlight & leaves
play about her nipples”

“Her nipples! ”
“Her... nipples! ”

I escape around the corner
catch a bus going the wrong way

try to gather
my scattered thoughts

as first
the bus driver
and then all the passengers

on both the lower
and upper decks

take up
the sunlight & leaves
concept

& discuss whether
it is fitting or not

& does credit

to your beauty

as I get off
at the next stop

and walk home
trying to keep

my thoughts

to

my

self.

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I read below People who read Donall Dempsey...and think to myself... are lucky people...