Toby with Aisling at Spanish Point
¶ 1
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Not a poet, no, although Toby was a bard
of the bottle no doubt, with a song
and a rhyme, his thick red beard
under his Harris tweed hat,
¶ 2
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no eyes to be seen, his briar pipe
fumigating the Irish air with Ogden’s flake.
¶ 3
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His wheelchair making it onto the sands,
a chore for the caregivers to churn
through the sand with a boatload
of bloodies and Jesus, Mary, and Josephs.
¶ 4
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Then later hilariously hatless,
the churning Atlantic and just Toby’s feet and head
to be seen — almost lost him right there,
laughing like a child to be back
¶ 5
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where it all began for him,
before the English road,
food grubbed in binnies
¶ 6
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laughing how he was just one of the tots
kicking a football round the schoolyard.
¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 Christopher T. George
29
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