Tipperary
Tongues of hot air exhaled by the trains -
our latter-day dragons -
scorch the seat in the underground
where 'Sometimes the night ever ends,' you say.
You ask me to go to Tipperary
on that far-off day when you return;
I say no, but let you kiss me - you with the raddled features
hiding what might once have been a face.
But there is no way back.
You will not clamber from the subways of the city
out into the day or any Tipperary;
company you have not chosen chooses you and binds you.
Your stale breath mingling with the dragon's fire,
you sprawl back into unconsciousness,
blind to the stares of sober travellers,
falling down dark tunnels of endless night.