and taken the last crap poster down, and walked
like a mournful ghost though the blank, familiar rooms,
a thought struck – clang – loud as a two-pence piece
in a metal bucket: where was the vibrator?
Oh cruel Gods! Oh vulgar implement
that was stowed discreetly on some shelf or cupboard
but has almost certainly not been boxed away…
Oh dirty gift of doubtful provenance.
Oh gift – surprise! – for next week’s settling tenants.
Oh nice surprise for next week’s settling tenants,
four Polish men paid peanuts by the hour
– for in Belfast too The Market holds its sway –
to find in some nook or niche-hole the vibrator
still beats, in the dark, its battery-powered heart.
Copyright: Leonitia Flynn
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