Twelve For Wilson

Waking light on Moore Street shuddering metal doors
the lady with the fish
slits a head and tosses it back into a box of ice
women pushing childless strollers; tightly tucks in Dunnes and Tesco

un-American tongue captured by cat
no sea in sight, just KM of bridges over single river
heat pumping out of pipes creates a city of divided stench
which onion is less dead?

one more Irish coffee with a side of inflicted pride
in a swarm of eejits and gypsies shakin'
the 2 cents, the 5 cents, "Hey gorgeous, hair extensions?"
delicate rejection, no roots grown in Dublin