A Bridge, Overlooked

By sean mcnulty
- 88 reads
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?
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