John Doyle

Someone Else's Cat

by John Doyle

She's someone else's cat—

not that I'll shirk my concern,

most mornings she expects a feed,

that's fine, I know

she'll miaow her thanks,

then I watch her leave town on a passing stage,

full of bounty hunters and leather-briefcase

Swedish accent doctors—heading for Cheyenne,

she's someone else's cat,

I think that every night, before I go to sleep,

or if I see her barely dodging moving cars

at the eastern-end of my estate,

and I feed her again Tuesday

and think of that stage nearing Cheyenne,

bounty hunters

who don't get involved,

and Swedish-accent sawbones,

haven't got time to deal with cats,

and I think of her—

someone else's cat,

lost beneath the grinding wooden wheels,

dilated-eyed

and watching, for someone

on whom she can miaow her thanks

Monaco

by John Doyle

She observes us for

brief snippets of time,

time something she anchors like wand,

her face reflects

George VI, Onassis, and 1950s mob-built hotels,

her maiden smile uttered

beneath the waves of under-chilled wine,

John and me resist the urge to swear;

and her colors gleam through heralds,

a coat of arms tanned on rocks

near Eze; she speaks of horses

groomed in youth,

Bertie Windsor’s smile unfurled

from idyll-praised brogue;

"Monaco," she tells us

"was nothing ‘til the mafia came,

the palace was full of weeds

and Grace Kelly was an Irish girl's name"

Monaco—as we stand

ocean blue

charters her navy-tanned veins,

she listens through

chimes of glasses almost-full;

we rummage through our lives, what stories could we possibly tell?

Kent Railway Station, (Cork City, March 8, 2009)

by John Doyle

The girl from Košice

doesn’t know Nigel K—

nor do I. Nor do I know

the girl from Košice;

It really is a clusterfuck,

as any jarhead might say,

waiting at their bunk-beds

for a war in South America to happen,

watching their cigarette

fizzle-out, the President’s commiserations

in a cool-deep puddle beneath their boots—

shining, like moonlight that dares a little

to tickle the roofs of trains

leaving Kent Railway Station,

and my ticket, almost valid.

I do not wish to know Nigel K,

nor the girl from Košice.

One night in the hippy commune

in Kinsale

was a bad, bad mistake.

Jennifer

by John Doyle

Jennifer was my first girlfriend—

it was 1980—both of us four years old—

a disco-dance floor was made from pebbles

like ancient Mayan puzzles,

lager-cans and smoldered twigs nearby—

evidence of civilization disappeared.

Jennifer was my neighbor,

the one who went missing

days after her breakdown—let home from hospital.

They found Jennifer barely hanging-on

three days later, in the woods. The cold did its thing

like a blade to a lamb's throat.

Jennifer Juniper is played on vinyl

crisp like early-shooting flames

through the forest before the animals are spooked.

The evidence smoldered on several faces

for days, Jennifer's cortege mumbled its suspicions,

my first girlfriend and her second husband said hello—

I smiled. I haven't seen her wearing purple

since 1980

This Is Nothing; This Is Nowhere: September 2008

by John Doyle

And it's Sunday

and the sun is cold as ice,

and those Beatles songs I've never heard

and don't give a damn about,

and that long walk by the railway line

and that freight train that never came

and that Friday night next week where someone plays “Blood on the Tracks”

and everything’s in the wrong order,

and Magnum P.I. from 1985 at 5 AM defusing a bomb alongside a dolphin

and that pecan pie the nurse from Alabama takes still frozen from the fridge

and her niece Savannah who doesn't know yet her auntie's divorced,

and that's it really, thirteen years later. Nothing, nowhere

John Doyle is from County Kildare in Ireland. He returned to writing poetry in February 2015 after a gap of nearly 7 years. Since then, he's had 6 collections released, including Leaving Henderson County, in 2020. He is writing his first novel at present and works as a journalist.