By Aidan Ryan
1988, left the satined ladies of the Galway races
for a day trip to Pa’s place, Ennistymon, County Clare.
‘Michael Ryan?’ Not a nod – he’d been forgotten
(least in town) but Uncle Willie …
‘Sure
and I still can see him on his assn’cart
proudbacked driving the hour into town.’
‘You knew him?’
‘As well as any.’
‘And he was?’
‘The only brother left.’
Nearly 30 years dead. And I two hours to Galway
and the Park House, futurities, local feed, shit and sterling,
Irish wagers on Lascaux, the closer I half-owned.
Thought of Willie’s ass. Tipped another pound
to Ahern, asked, ‘Could you show me where you laid him out?’
With a sweep
he cleared my pint and pointed:
‘Sure. You’re leaning on it.’
To submit poems to Artvoice. email Gia@artvoice.com.
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