Two Chairs

Two chairs

split-backed

and I sit across from

my younger self

a pint in his hand:

How the hell did you get here?

 

Slouched at the bar

my older self

swivels around:

Don't even start you little bastard.

Why you still let that boy around you anyway? 

Three boot steps and he's out the door. 

 

I can't answer either of them.

In the stained glass window

a ship breaks apart in the inlet.