John Hughes
The Same But Different
Three-legged chairs, clapped-out fridges, dead dogs,
Broken cups, Picasso’s fish, an abandoned Dormobile...
I’m walking through a dump in County Fermanagh.
I stopped the car and started walking a week ago.
If only I had the hands of William Hazlitt
And a knife that leaves no wounds.
The next person I will meet will be dressed
In a quilted jacket, corduroys, and trainers.
A kiss on the forehead will do for them.
I’ll return to my car the way I came.
Near Pettigo the west wind will rise up
And toss me over a hedge of rhododendrons.
I’ll come to my senses waist-deep in rushes,
With my tongue in a stranger’s mouth
And my real mother standing over me.
Page(s) 74
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