The Slim Volume by Terry McDonagh
 

It hadn’t snowed for days and what remained
was discoloured by grit and dog piss –

a bar on a busy corner was blue with
temptation and tomfoolery – it was Silvester.

Ernst tripped up the third step of three,
but saved face. This was his church.

He went for a stool along the counter,
ordered a Merlot, then checked patrons

in the mirror behind the optics.
Wine replaced his need for words.

The sculpture of a woman – a Christmas Tree
blazing at her feet – came into focus on

the back wall. No trace of Father Christmas.
He tried to remember his father, but that was

when he was three. A Moulin Rouge poster
filled a space on the wall. The sculpture

seemed to have a sword between her shoulders.
Her breasts were bare. Another wine?

In the lurid air, the figure could have been
foreign – a mother, perhaps. A fly, unable

to get its wings going, crawled by his glass
like an ageing actor with walk-on, walk-off parts.

Ernst felt for the slim volume in his inside pocket.
It was louder outside – he’d have to mind his step.