Near Mullingar

we are stopped at a roadside

cafe with a filling station. I fill

up the car – she buys coffees

and plastic-wrap sandwiches. 

my window is open: inside,

we have left on the radio – 

something with saxophone

blowing building-struck moonlight

which doesn't suit the country 

at all. it should be guitar, 

something strummed, paced 

and peaceful, as burned as these hillsides

which cling against earth; 

grass combed by fingers 

of wind. a truck pulls in, men dismount – 

uniform hi-viz – walk past me 

and enter the store. they're back

before she is, with deli rolls, chocolate

bars, cigarettes and cans of off-

brand coca-cola. cars pass 

at speed, going somewhere 

where food will be better. 

a young woman smokes 

by the doors to the bathrooms 

in the stink of a five minute

break. by the edge of the forecourt 

a thicket of weeds and wild grass

grows determined – clings hard 

as the muscle of shoulders

to spine. thistles raise trumpets 

through oilslick and spillage, 

a violence of reds, cabbage

greens and unnatural purples.

DS Maolalai has received nine nominations for Best of the Net and seven for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in three collections, "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and Noble Rot (Turas Press, 2022)