Bitter Guinness- Anne Walsh Donnelly

I slurp dregs, immune to bitterness.
Murder cigarette.
Fumble in jeans pocket
for my last coins,
throw them on the counter,
nod at barman.
He pulls another pint.

I swipe my phone. She smiles,
we walk by Cliffs of Moher.
Grind knuckles in sockets.
Why haven’t I changed my screen saver?

Grab fresh Guinness,
head not fully settled.
Gulp. Sneeze, splutter, splash,
down my creased shirt.

“Are you sorry?” she asked,
on the steps of courthouse
yesterday. I dug my toe into a crack
prised apart by clumps of dandelions.

“For what?”

Forehead creased, she flinched
as a cop car blared past.
I wanted to take her in my arms.

“You’re the one who walked,”
I said. Glared at the porter,
as he locked the courthouse doors.

“Yes, but you left me years before
I gave up on us.”

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