Not a poem for reading, but for declaiming loudly in the middle of Mother Redcaps pub in The Liberties, Dublin.

The Commuter


Ballymun,
Looks fabulous,
at night from the plane.

Like Torremolinos, or Ibiza,
On the Costa del Spain.

“Turn off yer mobiles”,
the Pilot lets a roar.

The gobshite in front
Makes it seem like a chore.

My stomach is somewhere
At the back of my spine,
as we climb steeply
with a tinny whine.

“What are you doing darlin’,
in London, tonight?”
says the gobshite to the stewardess.
How sad. How trite.

She smiles and walks on,
glad to pass by;
Makes him pay later with
hot coffee down his fly.

Up another hundred metres,
Me ears start to pop.
This commutin’s no joke –
Will it ever stop.