Give me back my money, McDonalds
I have deposited your meal in the latrine
I had the fear so bad I thought the gardaí would arrest me
for eating your ‘food’.
Give me back my Saturday night
I want to have stayed in
Give me back my charming entrance
I’ll give you back your plámás and your intentions.
I want those chin hairs back
which I plucked to be in your company.
I want you to put those
bland, vague and charmless statements
back in your mouth.
Put the smoke back in the cigarette.
I want my time back.
I don’t want you digesting mine.
Return the shit on your shoes
to the grass or pavement.
I’ll refund you.
All my make-up is sucked back into tubes.
Come back to me, all my secretions
off my clothes and into my skin and orifices
underwear clean once more.
I left my recovery in a public bathroom
and didn’t flush in case somebody might want it.
I want my conversation back home in my head
waiting to happen.
That moment before I open my mouth
when the magic is still there.