On Being Asked Directions to Drumcree
by two hacks from a London broadsheet,
I lean into their foul Isuzu 4×4, all bull-bars
and pocket phones, burger boxes and burnt stubs,
the black golf-ball compass floating helpless
on the dingy windscreen, and tell them
like everywhere else it’s a long way from here.
I elaborated with hand signals, the driver
thumbnailing a map and making a note,
his passenger tapping the compass as if it were
the oracle, the life-saver, as if it made
a button of difference here of all places,
after my parting-shot pointed them
in the opposite direction to arrive
sometime tomorrow or the day after that.
From Five Points Vol. 13.2