When I learned to speak 

I spoke working class.

Don’t misunderstand me.

It’s not an accent, it’s 

a position.

I can adopt it still.

When the old ones are chuckling on the bus,

when the builder is pricing the job,

when the craic sours around

cracked mirrors and lairy sinks.

Sometimes it claims me

when I least want to own it

but there is no one else

to walk me home.

Lately I grow tired,

teetering on this tightrope

between form and expression and

knowing the abyss

could swallow me whole.