Kiosk
A poem for busy days
I park myself on a rickety chair,
wrapped up against the January breeze,
scented with sourdough, coffee and the Lagan.
A train rumbles across the bridge
above my head, shaking my bones.
I pretend not to notice and turn the page of my book.
The yellow tented canvas roof flaps
from rusted beams and makes me shiver
in this little kiosk, where I like to take my time.
Time that I don’t have right now but spend
here among the concrete and wildflowers anyway.
