It’s been 5 months
since I walked his grid, they're
precise measurements now
polished, so not to skid.

Past the shop selling grapes
in bags, bunches split apart
for profits sake, when
really it's all a mistake-
as the person they’re intended for
will slowly slip away for sure.

Gangplank corridor, a bridge
across the restaurant. Through
double door vending machine island,
cups of tea- only a fiver.

Haematology is down there
in that extension,
but first the window walk-
double glazing, heat protection
convention.

The architect’s rounded bays to
either side bubble up and out
from the courtyards below. Death
waves from every window, but
curtains drawn so not to show
why, what, who or how.

We wait to be let in the ward;
treading ground so not to drown,
nervous carol singers waiting
to see what audience shall applaud,
airport carousel baggage claim for
luggage from abroad-

“Room 4 on the left” nurse
1 admits, like a lie held
between pale, rose lips.
“Room 4 is open to visitors” both
nurse 2 and 3 say,
*but I’m family, I’m here to stay.

Moi Saint Paddy Fake Trump Petted Family Irish vignette
At the tender age of fifteen years old, Aaron O’Harris boarded the Dublin gangplank and made a mental note to drop the “O” as this paternal grandson faintly recalls such anecdote told to me when just a wee itty bitty teensy weensy whipper snapper of a lad.

His decisive gait echoed across the wooden walkway.

Straight away (on that blustery march dawn – circa late twentieth century), he briskly boarded the ship that would shortly depart from the Emerald Isle and take him to America.

My paternal grandfather quickly wiped away stray tears at the prospect of severing ties with a large brood of siblings.

An abusive alcoholic father and passive mother would hardly notice the absence one son among a dozen plus offspring.

Matter of fact, a voluntary choice to become an immigrant in the Matzoh land of milk and honey would translate as one less mouth to feed.

The journey across the cold waters of the Atlantic began in earnest once the captain and crew pulled up anchor and instinctively oriented sights toward an invisible point thousands of miles distant.

While on board the long journey, he (known in traditional Gaelic as Sainmhíniú) kept the tedium at bay and kept himself occupied with divers pursuits.

An accidental trait eventually discerned in him from others to be a natural born leader by other passengers.

A good many of these other fellow countrymen and women (many with small children in tow) shared the common goal of starting life anew in the United States, and discovered him to be adroit at not only playing such games as checkers, chess, cribbage, but adept with singing (in traditional Brogue), and performing fancy foot work.

Improvisational songs (based on tunes from the home of Eire) evoked sadness at leaving the motherland (steeped in a rich history steeped in legend and lore), yet also excitement about beginning an adventure with countless opportunities to witness potential fortune or fame.

Visions of streets paved with plenty of golden wealth brimmed and danced supposedly available and within easy reach for those who possessed pluck.

Dragged at sword point to the gangplank
“Follow the rest or die"
365 days, all around-
“Balance”- can’t it’s a paradox, see
The world was never black and white to me
Shades of grey like smoke tendrils
Round my throat. These asthmatic perils
Won’t ****. Suspended in amber
Like flies. Still hope for a saviour.
None exists. I’m alone and must
Walk the gangplank to the edge
Looking down into the depths
Of a place unfathomable, a million steps
And a million falls. Water swirls like
The loops I was trapped in. Consuming,
Turbulent, ever wide, it calls
Into her arms the ocean took me
It’s expectations vs reality.
Thought pain , infinite torment would come my way
Penance for my earthly sins.
All there was

I exist and I don’t.
I remain and I don’t.
I’m alive and I’m not.