Leo. A poem by Luke Brennan

“I’m not a fan, but he spoke well.” I said through our national day, eight can haze. It seemed
so intentional, after an afternoon of no parades, to catch us all in our living rooms, your man from Fine
Gael delivering the news, of drip fed panic suppressant. Tell us straight up facts, but only just enough. I
remember him last month squabbling with the other two, about who was the best vessel for change.
Who predicted the international health crisis and world wide deficit? The personal rock and hard place
of my gambling your asthma to work retail and keep something on the plate? The mass hysteria in Argos
the other day? Gloves duck taped to hands, people done up like gangs in Mad Max; scarves, googles, full
face dust masks. Auld ones fighting over the last chest freezer in stock, parents in for every board game
to be got; it’s only been a week and kids are climbing the walls, lads buying out the last neoprene weights
and exercise mats; Covid-19 shut down the gym’s regime, but Instagram doesn’t know that. I wonder
did they all tune in the other night and feel any bit calmed? Watching Leo, the man, trying his best, with
no other agenda beyond damage control. Speaking honestly for once about knowing very little, and
telling people who know less. Only weeks ago, we were a country that voted for change. What I gathered
from that speech; we ain’t seen nothing yet.


Luke is student in the Writing MA in NUIG

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *