Flat Hunting
my new boots
weren’t quite waterproof,
but it hadn’t rained yet
either. I was
hurrying. this was September,
late last year. the air
had that heavy
thick
and silken feeling,
sticky suspicious warmth;
the heat you get
right before
a thunderstorm.
my coat
was quite good
but my boots weren’t waterproof.
the sky was dark as a coalseam
and it split
like a lime on a bartop,
spilled;
heavy round raindrops,
cold as petals
from a dead flower.
they splattered all over me, burst
underfoot. I was a migrant
vineyard worker,
stepping on grapes
for pennies at a time.
the coat
kept the worst off
and I was nearly there,
but my step kept getting heavier
and my socks ran
to soaking. I had come
straight from work – running from the bus-stop
to get a first look
at the flat. the landlord was holding viewings
from 6:30 – everyone else
got off work at 5. each landlord in dublin
did this. there was a conspiracy,
I imagined,
to catch me with pneumonia. when I got there
the line had dispersed
and I could feel the beginnings
of blisters. the flat
was taken. some one-room pigeonhole
with a bathroom by the bed
and damp
burning the tiles
purple. I needed
somewhere. it would have
done.
my hood had come off
in my hurry to view it.
a car went through a puddle
and somehow my trousers
got worse. such casual disaster
in the build to humdrum
catastrophe. I pulled up my hood
and tugged at the fabric,
stomping
to a pub near the bus-stop
for a quick pick-me-up
pint.
Cats
they seem really
to really have style;
really, that’s the
problem. curling
round your legs
and purring
sweet machineguns. they’re
warm
and soft
and somehow
that’s enough.
nothing against
a wild animal
of course,
but these still kill
even after they’ve eaten,
and with no
provocation at all;
just joy
and a strange intent
to empty
nests
of birdsong.
The Gas
I get back
after going out for wine
and find my vegetables
wallowing like hippopotami,
cold in their pot. sliced
on the chopping board
it is always
so fine – the carrots cubed,
potatoes falling in two,
white parsnips and fresh green
broccoli, sweet
as treetops in spring.
then I get distracted again
and leave,
forgetting to turn the gas on.
the water
is cold,
and not the live cold
of a glass when you’re thirsty,
but a dead cold, still
as a pavement puddle.
I can’t believe
my silliness
and sigh,
placing the wine on the table
to make some toast while I wait.
it clicks
and the butter melts
in heat against the knife,
soft enough
to leave most of the crumbs in the bread.
I open the wine,
turn on the radio
and then the gas
in that order.
By DS Maolalai
- DS Maolalai is a poet from Ireland who has been writing and publishing poetry for almost 10 years. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Press, and he has a second collection forthcoming from Turas Press in 2019. He has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize.
