This was our way: amidst the pub’s uproarious
conversations, we’d nod and stay aloof.
Who would have guessed we bunked beneath one roof,
had the same father, and the same woman bore us?
The Breffo’s two years gone, and Shane and I
are sitting in a bar in Prague or Stockholm,
too far now for the three of us to walk home,
up Merrion Avenue, cars joyriding by.
The keys we have no longer shift the latch,
and you are ashes. And still. On occasion,
we’ll scan the foreign talk and friendly fray
of some new bar, still hoping that we’ll catch
at least something, if not a conversation —
a nod, perhaps — before you turn away.
Justin Quinn's most recent book of poems is Shallow Seas (Gallery, 2020). He lives in Prague
conversations, we’d nod and stay aloof.
Who would have guessed we bunked beneath one roof,
had the same father, and the same woman bore us?
The Breffo’s two years gone, and Shane and I
are sitting in a bar in Prague or Stockholm,
too far now for the three of us to walk home,
up Merrion Avenue, cars joyriding by.
The keys we have no longer shift the latch,
and you are ashes. And still. On occasion,
we’ll scan the foreign talk and friendly fray
of some new bar, still hoping that we’ll catch
at least something, if not a conversation —
a nod, perhaps — before you turn away.
Justin Quinn's most recent book of poems is Shallow Seas (Gallery, 2020). He lives in Prague
