A poet, apparently by DS Maolalai

for Pat

he used to come by
selling magazines,
newspapers, 
trinkets, and tickets 
for door to door charity 
raffles. my mother thought him
at least an intelligent bird – 
and a poet apparently 
also. she'd have him in
when he called sometimes;
feed him cups of tea, 
biscuits and sweetly
strong coffee. the only man 
she ever allowed
dump ash on her clean
kitchen table. I didn't 
admire him, in spite 
of his insights
because I was a child 
and a teenager, and he 
just a shapeless 
grey pigeon, 
oiled fluff and broken 
down feathers. a son
who didn't speak to him,
a wife dead, a recovering 
alcoholic. I met him
again in my twenties,
just in passing on the street
near to phibsborough.
my mother had told him
I was a poet now too
and he handed me some
of his poems. god 
they were absolute 
garbage. just utter 
unreadable shit

DS Maolalai has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016) and "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019)