next thursday (2008)
i will be cracking the egg of a dream from the inside,
sluicing off the albumen, teethbrushing,
gazing at my newborn face to spot
the tiny change each hatching brings
and listen as the tom waits filter voice
of coffee croons above the news
of kitchen blues.
i’ll hover naked for a while
between the smile of dermot murnaghan and work.
a tide of e-mail. i’ll be canute of the desk.
‘stop!’ i’ll say. i do each day. they don’t.
i’ll return, wet from casual text
to where my lover waits
warm as a grinning seal. then
we’ll melt slowly
into each other and the evening
and a dream will harden about me.
why do you ask?