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This poem is taken from PN Review 237, Volume 44 Number 1, September - October 2017.

Two Poems Lorna Goodison
Ireland Jamaica

My friend Dan O’Riley Kelly’s skin is the colour of a glass of Guinness.
A wild man who once locked four of us in his car one Monday
and drove us through ink-dark Bog Walk’s carbon cachement
across low and precarious Flat Bridge, to a dirty dive of a night club
that as it turns out had been closed down. So right there in the empty
asphalt carpark under the light of a tinnin moon, he danced by his own
self, as we sulked and allowed as how the next day was a workday

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