without pen, keyboard or fingers
I am not inspired
and I don’t carry a muse in my trousers pocket
or in curly hair going thin on top.
I am not more creative
than any of the entire population of China
or the wrinkled man that ate two pork sausages,
runny scrambled eggs,
white buttered jamless toast,
that swilled milky bog-standard tea
in Cafe Beva this morning
before it started to spit a shower
on mourners paying their respects
outside the undertakers next door.
I write in toilets,
while driving a car,
while pretending to hear voices,
and speak in tongues.
I wrote this verse while stuck
in the Jack Lynch Tunnel,
and finished it during a phonecall
in which my therapist said she couldn’t see me before Tuesday.
I never run out of paper
even while I watched Queen of Katwe
in Mahon Point Omniplex last night.
I carry the surface on which I compose
in a compartment some call mind.
I marry my mind with the flow
of unexpressed experience
with dreams that tarry like hovering dragonflies in shade
before emerging to linger
above rushing riverwater.