The stars chased and milk on the step and dawn
everywhere around on the highways and byways at 6am,
the pavements, the filling stations and cluttered estates
moving faster than us—
                                                   me, the drink and Fab Cabs—
the taxi-driver is wondering if I’m going to work or coming home,
saying when sober he could never walk anywhere,
but see drunk, he made it back from Dungannon—
twelve miles—staggered home to his wife who was waiting up
for excuses with her own tally of liquor and late night
headaches,
                  at which point the drink chipped in,
calling women mind readers, prize fighters, retail therapists,
always lifted and laid, always ready with the benefit of the doubt
though we’re leaving them for other freedoms,
and if they never feel sorry for us because of this
it’s only to be expected—
                                                    the drink talking
and me out of it, the taxi-driver not disagreeing about women,
money, fellow passengers or backseat drivers, him and the drink
getting on famously, while I watch the slew of lights
above the crash-barriers and lean into corners
and give minimal directions to my beautiful front door.