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It was this morning and yesterday again,
          a smell, a scent, on the metro, in my nostrils,
                    a decent into the memory, a revery playing, replaying 
                while the crows counted Round Here, they sang, 
          this year and that other year, all at once,
we sang our own song, once, once, once
          but time, like the metro, took us off and on
                     into different directions, obligated to other distractions, 
                                           men and marriage, movements and meanders,
                                 an Irish song we sang, you sang, I listened 
                    and then I left while you stayed on,
        stayed on track in that other year 
but I came back and you were still there
           still here, Round Here, as the crows sang,
                     are still singing, those counting crows
                                   their words still ringing 
             in my ears, today, on the metro,
  with that scent, that odorous accent
            that opened a gap in time between yesterday,
                                            when we were young, and today,
                                                              grown worldly and wider, 
                                           this morning as my mind rushed
                            and passengers crushed onto carriages
            commuting, lines crossing, junctions joining
as I went to work remembering who we were,
     I wore waistcoats even then and you a brown coat
                            that caressed your curves and concerns,
                                   I went to work while traveling onwards,
                                                     along the same rails,
                                          in the same direction
                      as before but different too 
                             some things old
                                  and some things new,
                                           still me on the metro,
                                                  still me and there’s you.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Published by deuxiemepeau

Published poet, writer, baker and former fashion maker, with footprints in Paris, London and Amsterdam but currently back home in Dublin with sights aimed at leaving a mark on the West coast one clear fine day...

4 thoughts on “ME ON THE METRO

  1. I love the line ‘brown coat that caressed your curves and concerns’. Years later, there is a distinct smell that takes me back to paris metros wherever I am 😉

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