by Niamh McNally

It’s not the time for poetry
and don’t use the tracks 
as a short cut’
                              she said.
So, I waited.

I waited for
The train of thought
                     to express by.

on a once fitting       cap,
My ball- point foot  tapped
like the hind of
a black BIC 
                   that isn’t
                   quite waterproof.

                   In my right
                   Held in the centre
                   A plastic drum rolled
With my left 
A right-angled scaffold
My temple and cheek.

Paradoxical parallels
Of the railways sleepers
Smothered in oily ink fails,
They stop the rot
Of the embedded words
under the sleeping ladder rails

It might hit me  
             if I cut the metered track,
A paraphrased choice
   Echoing that voice: ‘stand back’ 
Behind thick yellow tarmac
           The writer’s blocked line
I’m saved from the cheat sheets
           and half 
                             rhymed times.