Spilt Vodkas

Her fake tan is rubbing off onto my jeans
helped on its way by countless spilt vodkas
this is no lipstick on the collar
sadly it’s just friendship

she’s crying that she’ll never be loved

that her drinking will kill her

that she’s going crazy

no different to any other girl on a Friday night
 
she’s already loved

but I’ll never make her spill vodkas

and that’s the drama she craves

all I can do is put my shot glass next to hers

rejection on a daily basis
even unsaid
is enough to kill a man’s soul

I tell her I have to go

she seems distressed

but it’s not borne from any longing desire

which is why I HAVE to go

and scrub the St Tropez from my denim.

Another 40 Years

I’m quietly reflecting with a Guinness

black, Dublin velvet in the corner of a pub booth

the rain is hammering down outside

shading the day with a miserable hue

work is a good half day away

I’m in Heaven

a group of old men hold court in the next booth

they’re talking of landlords past

Tommy Mochran was always dapper

but then they all were back then

I look at the bar to find the current landlord

this chainpub has no landlord

just a succession of business graduates

with no time to have beers waiting for the regulars

they’re too busy working out profit margins

these old men seem ridiculously happy

too old to work

too young to worry about death

they look forward to each day

they’re much like me when I was 18

this resemblance fills me with hope

maybe one day I’ll recapture that exuberance

the last decade’s worn it away

perhaps due to unrealistic expectation

did these old men have similar worries?

it’s easy to say they were from a more simple time

but I’m sure they wanted to put more than bread on the table

they wanted to nail that centrefold to it as well

I’ll find out the answer one day

but first I have to pay my dues

rushing out into the rain

to face life head on

for another 40 years.