The Indiscretion

by John Doyle

I.F.I. Dublin, March 2017

My seat was a pink-elbowed virgin,

a bait scarved-snipers Dublin draws

this time of the willing equinox;

you settle into your book-club novel,

heron returned to shore having pierced stupid waters, 

like invader, 

like cascading WW2 bomber—

like something that un-knows harmony and takes all its leviathan days 

shaking them from its soaking gob—

across the couch where you took my throne and sat there 

like that witch who’d bitch-slap Charlie Brown as if it were her birthright,

as if it were the predetermined route of life.

Could you pity lukewarm coffee

screaming down a plughole as you hide behind your book-club excuses, knowing,

suitably silent?

That was my seat, life was beautiful there 

and through the skylight the stars for once 

called me by my name—

What name do you ride your mule by—Judas, Raffles, Rizzo? 

Not Stella or Nightingale, that I can safely say.

What shames me more is Iscariot’s son—at the door, telling me nothing—and I smile meekly