i was sitting outside the airport

in a bus terminal

waiting

for something to come. i was in london;

22 years old

with 3 stuffed bags

and 50 pounds in sterling

sweating blue on my ankle.

i was watching these two kids kissing

a few rows ahead of me,

kissing

with their hands on eachothers necks

and their fingers

creeping into eachothers hair. i was there,

finally,

to get away from dublin

and setting out

and be the greatest english-language writer

since the translator of baudelaire and pasolini

and felt

possibly

that this could be some material. my girlfriend then

was in another country.

3 days were booked in a hostel.

the air was cold,

college was over.

no job,

no real,

no prospects. the bus

was late

and pigeons

were everywhere. i leaned a bag on my hip

and opened a sandwich packet with my thumbs

humming to myself

like someone who felt

ok.