Punchline
A man walks into a bar
where the pint’s on the house
if he tells a good joke.
He’s always the life and soul,
and tonight he’s on form.
Applause sweeps the bar like a tide
till the barman calls time.
A woman irons a week
in an hour, matches shirts and ties,
folds T-shirts and pants into squares,
tucks grey socks into shoes,
triangles ham-&-cheese into Tupperware,
sets the digital clock to Repeat.
The man walks into the night.
Someone walking a dog on the pier
finds his jeans folded
dry on top of his boots,
wallet and watch in the toes
with a note that says only, ‘Dear—’
She fixes her everyday smile (Coral Dream),
steps into the street that leads to the shore.
The bitten moon’s womanly tug
draws her into the tide.
Is she surprised by the last gull’s cry,
the slow breathing in, silence?
A woman folds the narrow scarf of her life.
A man walks into the sea. For how long
does he mean to die?
Breda Wall Ryan’s poetry and fiction is widely published in journals and anthologies and has won or been shortlisted in international contests, most recently the Fish Poetry Prize 2013. She has an M Phil from Trinity College, Dublin