augury doggerel

Monday, January 13, 2003


We saw Seamus Heaney in our pub long ago. He worked up the street and so did we. He leaned back on a corner bench, one leg over the other, and sipped a pint. He looked into a small hardcover whose title could not be read. He may have smoked a pipe, but now that piece of the picture is smudged. Maybe someone else smoked a pipe. We were careful, let him graze, but he might have felt the crook of a neck or caught a quick face, or maybe he had just had enough. When I came out of the bog, his corner was empty and I was left with two women and a newspaper.


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