Poetry

Little Joe

I think of his skull turning in fallen soil
loose at the neck.

When I returned from Galway City
he’d become a trainee chef,
cooked me instant mash with bangers.
We’d played Burton’s Hamlet on vinyl
that kept jumping on the seventh soliloquy.

His guitar was dusty, propped in the corner
of his bedsit.
I rubbed down the frets with the beer towel,
twisted the keys into some kind of harmony.
I coaxed him to take the axe
and we were back in those tight blues clubs,
wings of sweat on your lucky blue and grey shirt.
A cigarette dowp burns down to filter
the headstock dotted with nicotine knots.
Leaving next morning with gluey eyes,
we shake hands until the next time we meet.

Karl Riordan