With Niamh in Harcourt Street
The intravenous drip machine doggedly
hums through the night,
breaks into fits of frantic ticks
as if it wants to fight its way out of the room.
I have my comforts: book, newspaper, flask of tea
and most importantly: a naggin in my briefcase.
A child wails on the wards, always;
shoes clack on tiles;
suck on your soother;
I eye the briefcase.
If you've any comments on this poem, Padraig O'Morain would be
pleased to hear from you.