O'BRIEN'S AUNTY.

AN IRISH MAN AND HIS AUNTY

Laughter’s not good for you, Aunty said.
This made O’Brien laugh. She was quite the Plato,

In her own crab way. She was 53.
Smoked and drank to her heart’s discontent.  

Wipe your boots on the mat before you come in,
She’d say, her voice carrying across the hall

Like a Messerschmitt in flight.
O’Brien would wipe his boots,

Pulling a face, she couldn’t see,
Shouting out, OK, Aunty.

She sat in her armchair,
A queen of her class,

Puffing a cigarette,
Holding a glass.

Pour yourself a drink if you want one,
Don’t make it a habit,

Don’t be a pisshead, she’d say.
O’Brien poured himself a drink,

Sat on the chair by the fire,
Watched his wide arsed aunty,

Listened to the radio in the background,
Playing jigs. How’s your father?

Aunty asked, her eyes peering at O’Brien,
Taking in his unkempt hair,

Faded jeans and worn sweater.
He’s fine, O’Brien said, he’s fine.

Aunty shook her head,
Her grey curls danced.

You’re a worst liar than your father.
At least he could spin a yarn to fool me,

On a bad day. O’Brien nodded,
Looked away, took in Uncle’s ashes

On the mantelpiece, thinking alone,
Sipping his pint, at least one’s at peace.