God knows what would come out, if I started to use My west-of-the-Shannon round vowels, Which you are colonising.

As you purse your lips to front yours, I notice that it goes very well with your chic-about-town suit.

You speak foreign D4 to the men in my parts, Who respect sibilants that don't make a difference, Know that SHTOP is surprise, not a rural marker Separating them from the wise fellas Up at the University.

Or a noun, Something they would do to sort out A poseur like you.

You flex your intellectual biceps Obsessed, not only by your manhood But by the kind of man you are.

The genre, an obtrusive voice, Your life, a metafiction, A revised identity.

Now, your grandmother, a professional woman Who walked to school from May to October In her bare feet Is unsure about her story.

It is not one of the images you are staying with today.

Your voice echoes in the 1970s box architecture Of the new Irish University, Hollow as Plato's Cave.

The sign of the times no more than The minute's silence for Guinness, For Irish before the singing of the national anthem.

The men in my parts still check the sky for the weather, Are ensconced in a world that loves them, Will turn up at the funeral, Pay respects to one of the best.

You wish your words still had meaning like theirs.

It's what you left behind, Men pulling their wellies up over wool socks to go out on the land, While you lace up your expensive trainers To jog on an asphalt running track.

You can hear the chortling of a bird Coaxing you back to your senses.

It would be too much like innocence To know whether it is a lark in the morning, A sparrow chattering, or a robin claiming territory.

You put up the volume, adjust your earphones, Check the zapper for the electric gate is in your pocket, Home is only a block away.