Smith

I am Irish,
I do not patter a brogue, not lilt, or prate the Celtic.
I’m annexed English, cockney, a dead queens piglish,
chameleon tongued.

Something took me, shook me like a spade
until an un-rooted soil fell, a ground crumbled
grew tropical jungles of alien expression.

Years press, some bulldozed, some were the wrecking ball.  
Found my clay feet stomping, squishing mud, 
fostering images, a mire between a to zee
but never enough letters to fit a parlance;
my  placeless patios, my me.

America, a melting polyglot,
I’m still slanging, hanging words out to dry, new words
told contrary-wise estranged in an outlandish manner
of palaver, 
a poetry of sorts,
sounds unbound and breathing
but never replete, yet a bellyful
to live in the eyes and ears. 

Speak slowly and I will hear you with my lips.

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