by Neil Donnelly
Walking towards the Golf club,
sun beating on the Old Head of Kinsale;
at the Sentry Box, between a limp tricolor
and a stars n’ stripes, a dark shirt appears;
dark glasses, dark walkie-talkie, a security guard.
Sir, can I help you?
Is it possible to get a drink and a sandwich?
You can’t go up. People have paid 600 euro for a round of golf.
I’m not intending to play.
You’re not appropriately dressed.
I only want a drink and a sandwich.
This is crazy,
He steps from the box.
This really is crazy,
A second guard appears.
When did Black Coffee become Americano,
I mutter and walk away.