–Last week I was in Dublin
11 euros for a pint of Guinness!
Do you get a woman with that?
He said he said to the barman.
And they both laughed.
It didn’t matter really whether he’d been there last week or not
For that moment of laughter
A moment not thinking of ‘fucking bastard cancer’
He’d just revealed he had.
Eyes tear filled with anger and fear.
–I’m 80. I must’ve been a wicked bastard.
-No, you were not. Cancer doesn’t work like that.
Queue building. She wished he had bought more:
To have more time. To say more
To say…
What was there to say?
–They said I shouldn’t drink this.
Two beer bottles in his much reused bag –
To save the planet.
And the walking stick was shaking.
Or he was.
They were one and the same.
–Enjoy them. Guilt free, she said/demanded. Softly.
Wondering at the wickedness of those
Who tried to drain that last pleasure
From his last weeks.
Glad he had the fight to defy, at least that.
– I’ll see you again.
She squeezed his hand
Change within.
The little that was left.
And hoped by his last gulps
His mind was filled only
With Guiness and laughter and women
In Dublin bars-
Of last week.
Whenever that may have been.