Poem of the Week
Monday, June 18, 2012
At my wake by O'Donoghue, Peadar
At my wake
Inconspicuous in my absence,
eyes thumbed shut,
best-suited arms stiff by my side,
unable to reach the tasty snacks or
pour a pint down the parched gullet.
Deaf ears cannot hear how much they miss me,
on the rigor mortis scale - I’m ten.
Even when young they said
I was ‘Dead-but-for-the-washing.’
Do I remember the last supper? Butter on toast
on Sunday, before the mourning on Monday,
the craic here now on Tuesday
I’ll be ashes by Wednesday.
Time’s still winding clocks and watches like clockwork,
there will be clean shirts at Easter,
roasting hot days in summer with
tar bubbles bursting for joy.
If you take a walk as far as the bridge,
or the canal, buy me a red lemonade
in a black glass in Gleeson’s -
at least I was never the poor craythur with a choc ice,
trying to keep his teeth in.
Copyright © Peadar O'Donoghue 2012