Collars
Pieces of me are escaping
through the pores
in the skin
of this room
I follow them
outside
I see no people
only wily black dogs
on street corners
under the embankment
skulking in broken glass alleyways
I walk on
putting my own collar up
though the day is still
and blue
and yellow
as yellow
as I am
I look at my wrist
forgetting that I haven’t worn a watch in years
technology, the thief of time
progress
I walk on
looking down at my feet
those marvellous things
carrying me
away
The Salamander and the Nightingale
Yet my heart is racing
trying in vain
to outrun my mind
and I lie here
awake
awake
pouring over the day
stabbing at my thoughts
with a salamander tongue
legs restless
eager to run
nowhere to run to
I hear a small night sound
her room
awake
awake
I hear her pad
down her bunkbed steps
I hear her turn the bathroom light on
though I know
she will keep her eyes closed
I crane my ears
to hear her hum
my drowsy nightingale
then
it is morning
Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. Recent publication credits include Better Than Starbucks, Fowl Feathered Review, The Blue Nib, The Opiate, Sky Island Journal, Poetry Quarterly, Evening Street Review, The Folded Word, Ink In Thirds, Crack The Spine, The Cape Rock, Visions International and Third Wednesday. He has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and his chapbook, “Of Thunder, Pearls and Birdsong” is available from Fowlpox Press.
Porridge 