Off the Seafront - Daniel P. Stokes
“Over there,” you pointed, tired of walking.
“Let’s sit and see what gives this side of town.”
A bar just off the seafront, sparse on splendour.
Plastic chairs and tables on the pavement,
A grizzled barman serving with a grin.
Below us, Friday evening burbled
on the plaza—balls and skateboards
and families in clumps around its fringe.
But, over your left shoulder, I saw
Penthos in a checked shirt, hunched and ashen,
fidget with his brandy and viciously
suck a fag beneath his palm. Hopeless,
helpless, stupefied by fate, he nodded
at a spot that beamed back horror
and mouthed nothings.
But, before surprise succumbed to speculation,
before I thought to nudge you
he crushed his stub, slugged his drink,
slipped money on a saucer and,
unwitting as he entered, left my life.
A pigeon nodded to our table. Poddled
past. No pickings. You sat forward,
wound a wrap around you, smiled.
The evening had clouded. ,
I’d not noticed. Perception
is provisory and fickle.
A sideway glance can open curious vistas.
At other times from all directions
everything’s the same.
Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A. and Canada, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.
