the dunnocks

There’s a house on the road into town that used to have geese out the front of it. On my morning commutes to college, I would watch them for a second as we passed, then package that feeling away until we reached the opposite side of the road. There haven’t been geese in years, but I return like a dog to its favourite bush, careening my neck through each season, hoping they are once again amongst the daffodils, or carefully treading through tufts of ice.

The bus lolled to a stop the last day, perfectly positioned outside the home. How I would’ve loved this situated pause in the past. Through habit, or hopefulness, I looked into the garden again. I found birds this time, perched upon the gate- dunnock statues against a faded, sheenless slate, their metal beaks pointed towards the railing, their tails stretching behind them.

I had only noticed this gate when there wasn’t anything left to look at.

Before this, a man sat opposite me, chain-smoking.
The stench so heavy it seeped into his clothes.
He carried his shopping in an old kindling bag,
frayed at the edges with a plasticky fringe

dirty, unhurried;
he spoke Irish on the phone to a Máirtín,
repeating his name like an affirmation.

He got on a different bus before mine
and left me sitting in his tobacco,
coating my throat.

I had finished rifling through my book, yet I still held it, cover up.
I hadn’t read a word as he stood there,
sometimes leaning against the wall, then deciding no,

let me shift a little,
doing a private dance at the bus stop.

I had watched it all-
Why had I watched it all?

I went away-
inside myself,
beside myself,
with the worry of being unworthy-

of what?
of whom?

I sit with the pity
of that unanswered.