he lived, I expect,

the life he’d expected –

like a witty side-character

livening somebody’s book;

he was shaped very literary

with round bottle glasses

which rode on his cheek-

bones like horsemen.

and he moved off to places

like paris and brussels

with beautiful women

who smoked and wrote beautiful

poetry. very poetic, so beautiful

and sad all the time.

and he gave bike tours and lounged

with long books in small cafes

and chatted with people in bars.

and then when you’d see him?

some story from europe

where not much had happened

but a sense by the tone

of things going unmentioned.

his tattoos were all homemade

and his friends were all artists

and writers – all skinny,

all very good looking

and round bottle glasses

from all over europe

and living in paris in garrets like the 20s

sitting in the soft butter sunlight,

by montmartre on the stark paris skyline

and smoking cigarettes they’d roll in stained fingers

with long gray coats that stretched at the elbows

and accents made rounder by the need to be understood.

he came back to dublin after five years or so,

with no money and not much experience

beyond bicycles and hitting on tourists

and expected us all

to be very impressed

that he’d managed to do

so not very much

for such a very long time.