LAYERS

'Your man's back,' I say to Seamus,
'the onion.'
'Wit the name?'
'Himself,' I say,
'and if you'll put down that wrench,
'I think it's time to eat,
'I'm buying.'
There's a walk we take,
along by the alleys
with creeper over the walls.
He says nothing,
Seamus, but it's like prayer,
he doesn't do that either,
only listens.
He lets a hand stray,
touching the vine,
long dead bloodless sinews,
begun in a glasshouse
and now forever never escaping.
We reach the street,
see Ollie Fanteen, black as black
in his white shirt.
'Ollie,' Seamus hollers, 'he's buying.'
The Italian is where we go,
I'm buying but I'm not paying
if you follow,
there's nothing like spaghetti
when you're buying.
A carafe of house red appears,
and I pour myself a glass
of water, iced, for the company.
Minestrone comes,
and Seamus complains, 'Potaters,'
he says, 'it needs big fockin potaters.'
He won't be told.
But he sucks up spaghetti alright,
him and Ollie both,
double my plateful, I'm buying,
and on a diet.
We're the last table
this lunchtime;
it's the timing, sure,
there's reason we do what we do.
You don't have to be an onion
to make strange soup
but it helps.
Ice cream and coffee is ordered,
and waiting, Seamus says,
thoughtful, 'Did one a youse say grace?'
I reach into my pocket,
'Shaddap,' I say, 'and listen to this.'