Dermot Bolger
Martha
I found the box of old albums,
Blew dust off a disused needle,
Tom Waits began to sing ‘Martha’.
Once again I was twenty-four,
The pull of hash and tobacco,
Cheap white wine at my elbow
At the window of your bedsit
In the dustfilled August light,
A needle bobbing over warped vinyl
One final time before we stroll
Down to bars where friends gather.
Decks to be shuffled, numbers rolled,
Blankets bagged on some dawnlit floor.
Our lives are just waiting to occur
As we linger in the infinity it takes
For the voice of Tom Waits to fade.
Page(s) 16
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