City by Sarah Quigley

by Mark Noonan

The city is full
of memories – in the cars,
on the buses,
walked into the footpaths,

exhaled by the smokers:
in some way all the same,
how they hold the cigarette and shudder.
How they talk to you

and cry, let every shaking sob out
while you hold them awkwardly,
senselessly, like having your hands
around a hummingbird.

The crazy thing is that
you actually understand,
pat I've-been-theres on shoulders and arms
in the smell of some stranger's hair

and agree
on the fundamental shitness
of everything.