Two Old Friends By Sinéad Dunphy

Catching up.

Cold hands clutching

Warm coffee cups.

Growing apart 

But clinging on 

To times when 

Everything was fixed

With a song.

When we were happy 

To be miserable 

And anything 

Was possible.

Time has changed us

But not as much 

As we’d like each other to think.

You’ll go there 

And I’ll stay here

Watching years pass 

In a blink.

But we can still have coffee,

A taste of old ways,

Wasting hours 

That felt like years. 

Time slows down again

As we sip.

The Bus-rider By Killian Conyngham

I pity the Bus-rider, riding back and forth, day in and day out, seemingly on every bus I’ve ever been on.

He sits, his face full of thought, in his world of hoary glass, with his eyes focused like lasers.

He reads sometimes, and sometimes he writes, but mostly he simply stares. 

Stares into the world with a look that splits falsehoods and pretenses, and sees what there is to be seen.

Sees, and reflects, and then, as if struck all at once, begins writing with the lightning still hot in his hands.

His preoccupation is so encompassing, so intense, that I imagine he must often miss his stop, prolonging his never ending journey.

Adding another go around, in the hopes that this time, maybe, he might just snap out of it in time.

You wonder what it will be like, when he finally gets there. When he steps off and smells the air and stretches his legs.

You wonder if the destination is even all that important, to someone like him.

Someone who treats the journey as a gift, as mundane and beautiful as a breath.

Someone with seemingly infinite patience, content to live what others merely experience.

Someone who sits there, day in and day out, taunting me as I choose to ignore him, pulling my phone closer and edging myself into liminal distraction.

Someone so steady and stable that he stands as a rock, working away, a testament to my sins.

I envy the Bus-rider. And all I could be. If only the bus rider was me.