Today John Lennon will die

Today John Lennon will die

Cold enough for gloves.

A sky the colour of tripe

Clings to Clonakilty’s rooftops.

Our two spires hide in fog.

At school we warm our fingers

twisting little figures out of mála,

The last flecks of rainbow congealing

into shit-brown as we roll.

At small break the big boys beat

the babies up. At big break

they beat us up again. My belly hurts.

Mrs Crowley scolds “Only Cows Have Bellies“.

At home a young woman is suddenly old.

She stretches on the settee weeping.

A man on the telly keeps standing up and falling over,

standing up and falling over.