A Bridge, Overlooked

From my window I see a man

Stomping across to her, as though

Called by the NATION itself.

A staggered Ares.  With his arse showing.

And all the NATION behind him.

I wonder what she stole from this man.

What brought him to throw his leg at her?

Had she stolen his underwear from him?

His name and rank?  His crispy pancakes?

Her dress of many colours is not of this place

Where a singular dullness informs the fit.

Some would label the garb vulgar perhaps

but how less crude than the muddied cotton

he wears?  And that glassy puffer on top.

The eye looks for more champions.  

From either side of this wordless affray.

But they’ve a path and they keep to it

Or simply watch as I do from my window.

He spits.  She stands.  He thrusts.  She falls.

Her scarf is thrown in the water. 

He moves on to complete his national duties, 

Presenting greater arse in departure

While she resumes her own part on the bridge. 

If indeed she did steal something, perhaps

Her flung and battered scarf – now drifting

Down the Liffey – is a brilliant justice. 

No, no.

 I do not know. 

How could I from my window?