The hiss of steam and clack of
Cutlery as spoon strokes china while
Coffee is cajoled into a coffee cup.
‘It’s for the man on the sofa’ murmurs
The girl, as the spoon is pushed from
Table to hug the cup so tightly on the plate.
Voices shear off each other as light
Streams through cathedral windows, shafts
Of light reflecting the slap of tired leather soles on floors. ‘Any milk?’
She asks me while I watch the spluttering angry
Machine discharge it’s darkness into cups before
I sink into cushions, falling into dense clouds. I
Drink it in, the chatter of moments in time
As voices bounce around the room, fleeting words
Heard which only hint at stories being told. ‘It’s for
The man on the sofa’. A steaming cup arrives. ‘That’s me’
I say and I wrap my cold hands round the china heat. I wonder
What words Seamus would pen? I drink, a man, on a sofa. Somewhere.