James O’Sullivan

It would be overpriced but for the walls of glass,

where you can strain for hours, swallowed by each 

strange, disconnected glow, full of untold stories

and unsolved mysteries that keep to themselves,

but you know they are out there, lingering on the edge

of the bright shadows, slipping by the electrified 

tea lights, twinkling beneath the gold bars, 

stacked high so as to cause all the world to salivate.

Those walls are cold, but there is no reason to turn.

Two-for-one lobster in a sugary soup

can only be pitched so many times, and space

is better served enjoyed from a distance 

than walking around a pointless pen, 

set down for no reason other than to jack

the price for those beasts that like to stretch their legs,

taking proud mementos of a few feet of cream carpeting.

Yam fries are the highlight in here, but they are wasted,

consumed with the overzealous lemongrass chicken

ciabatta, and artisan cheeses, served with sundried olive

tapenade, delicately presented on a block of cedar.

All that is left is a smear of aioli, a half-glass

of melted ice, and grains of salt on the bed-sheet.

Through the clearing fog a horn blows – more are coming,

together, sharing stories, as they explore beyond the glow.