Tuesday Poem: Dead Crow #2

Baffed out in the street as if taking a spell

at the end of an epic bender,

a wedding guest guttered in his best suit,

comically dishevelled and tucked under

the sidewalk’s narrow ledge —

the physical manifestation of an effete

English accent pickled in alcohol,

eyes studying the morning’s blue for a star.

Halfways tempted to give it a nudge

to see if the drunken lush might stir,

stopped short by the cadaverous feet,

like two bare twigs of alder,

looking unnaturally naked and exposed.

Glance around a moment as I edge

past, wondering what became of those shoes.

Michael Crummey is a renowned Canadian poet and novelist. He won the Commonwealth Writer’s Prize for Best Book. He appears in Cork next month at www.corkpoetryfest.net