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He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
His name is called and there's a pause
just long enough to halt a war
tame timber wolves and trim their claws
hide diamonds in a secret drawer
He swears on his mother's life he wasn't there.
And if he was there
he swears on his mother's life it wasn't him.
And if it was him
It's New Year, 1979, at Funderland in the RDS in Dublin. In the cold calculation of the January air, a young girl tries to talk
I like to stay upand listenwhen big people talkingjumbie stories
I does feelso tingly and excitedinside me
A queen in a palace, slumped on a throne,Surrounded by servants but all alone.Heavy with handshakes, bunches of flowers,jewels, crowns, grinning for hours.
All you see is outside me: my painted smile,the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me
Back at school tomorrow.
Not tomorrow!One more day off please.I'm sick.I'm not ready.I haven't done my homework.
Toothless, she kisseswith fleshy lipsrounded, like mouthof a bottle, all wet
She bruises your facealmost, with twoloving tree-root hands.
Well I shouldn’t’ve been playin’ really Only there to watch me brotherMy friend fancies his friend, y’know.Anyway they was a man short.