The Reading

 
In the mock parlour room, people come and go.
No one speaks of Michaelangelo.
 
The words are thin and the wit is dull.
Arrogance saturates the air. No lull.
 
The Liffey water turns green, olive, matt black.
The lights upon it are buttered mosaic, forth and back.
 
The moment of grace is brief and it is bright.
It is sign-posted by no hot spotlight.
 
I want to drum heels, point and shout:
Talent is here; talent is out.
 

The Back Bedroom

 
It lurks lonely, like a figurine
It smells stuffy, like a chintz quilt
 
The wardrobe full.
 
Its faded finery, guests long gone
Its pillows thin and soft, clean like powdered snow
Its pincushion, still spikily sharp
Its duckling wallpaper, growing yellowed
 
The window fogged.
 
It smells of old, like winter silt
It sings of old, inexorable guilt
 
The door closed.
 
The Reading and The Back Bedroom are © Sarah O’Connor