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.