Not at The Races

By Victoria McNally


It’s too early in the morning

For this much learning

I’m not at the races

Nothing is sinking in

Empty books scattered everywhere


A song begins to play in my head

And I must remember the start of it

This room could do with a hoover

Saturday night beckons


My tummy rumbles

But not for learning

I open my window

And the heat kisses my cheek

I think of a beer garden


I hear sounds of the Luas

As it ding dongs past

The man across the road

Is he painting his house to match his hair?

A child drops an ice-cream cone

Soon to become a crows breakfast


In a corner a spider

Hides away from morning light

My thoughts are of home

I’m not at the races.