Ringsend: A Poem on the Funeral of Paul Durcan

I have chosen the worst location to
eulogise a poet: the outside space
at Craigavon Starbucks, a car park in
the eye of roundabouts, in full sunlight,
the page a glare of whited linen, surface
site from wall to wall. I have perched 80
at 80 on the table’s edge, away
from the coffee rings and cigarette
ash, having cleared the previous occupants’
mugs, and eight…