Two Poems

Last bus on Saturday
And drunken squaddies crowd
The empty seats with loud
Disputes for vanished pay

Squandered on girls or drink-
The boasts and joke go round,
A private, noisy sound
That will not let you think;

They raise the same shout for
Ireland, a mythic screw
(Arguing as to who
Will get shot up or score)

A high uncertain shout
That challenges the fates
To come clean with the dates
When luck is in or out.

One night two sat alone-
...