Man on a Sofa by paul mcbride

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.