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So where might you go with your travel pass?
Cairo? Byzantium? Albuquerque?
Traipse your way out towards Cumberland Street.
Bring your passport and a household receipt.
The kind staff are there to aid and abet.
They sit you down to photograph your face.
You might find that face rough to recognise.
That’s how pennies crumble — how cookies drop.
Remember you could hike to Sandycove?
You’d sip good coffee they serve in Fitzgerald’s.
Sweat from your brow whets the stone in your shoe.
What do your feet weigh? A ton of feathers.
How long did you walk? Till the seals came home.
Did the sun nuzzle you? Yes, like a wolf.
Frank McGuinness is a poet, playwright and novelist whose plays have been produced in Ireland and internationally. This week’s poem is from his latest collection, May Twenty-second (Gallery).
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