For the Dooleys. 18 of 30.

I know this poet
who is really a painter,
who draws himself with hand
on forehead
while a shadow of himself
made up of millions of
tiny men taps on his shoulder.

He talks like New York has teeth
made of books with full white pages,
and the street lights,
as he sees them,
are edible.

I think he thinks that.
It is dangerous to make assumptions,
especially about a painter
who is a poet
who does not eat meat,
but drinks tea in the afternoons,
and makes sure the eggs in
the diner are free range.

He wants India,
wants freedom, and to leave stickers
for the girl trying to buy paintbrushes.
He wants somethings else
but who can know what it is?
He likes chocolate.

We live oceans away,
a friendship divided by
timezones and stories,
I do not know where the beginning

We met in a park.

I know this poet,
whose brothers are poets,
they are engineer and actor,
wise guy and guru,
runner and dreamer.

We walk through their city smiling.
Or hike around old train tracks

and I cannot tell you why,
there is no how that could explain,
but I knew them when I was a child.

We may have played in the same sand box,
or watched Drop Dead Fred the same year.

I know these poets
whose mealtimes are holy,
sugar for tea sometimes
stuck together from a wet spoon,

their father tends a garden
in Longford.
He gave them different parts
of his smile and eyes.
He is all laugh and get down
to business.

He was a constable before a gardner,
a husband before a father.
He may have been a police captain
and not a constable,
it is never safe to draw from memory
smudged with nostalgia.

He made us eggs that were yellow
and fluffy, he bought the best
muesli and tea for breakfast.

These poets are a church.
They are a sanctuary of
freckle and fold out futon,
they are a safe house for
every traveler, a let down
for everyone interested
in preaching the good news.

They are the good news,
all cowlick and raised well.
They speak in paint and metro line,
they speak in mime and
meditation after porridge.

These poets, this poet,
did not give beginning
or end, just paint and smile,
directions through Stephen’s Green,
and a futon to drink my tea on.


About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in 30 in 30, Poetry, travel and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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