Primarily a humorous poet, Peter Goulding rails at the world from the comfort of his suburban home in Dublin, Ireland. Selected for the Poetry Ireland Introductions series in 2010, he has somehow managed to convince editors in four continents to publish his more serious poetry, usually by promising to go away if they do. He works in a warehouse and wishes he didn't.
The grapevine, which had been trained
to crawl along the stone-clad wall
in great lumbering undulations,
lay bedraggled on the floor,
like an incoherent drunk,
temporarily dislodged from its race
to the end of the wall
by last night's great storm.
A few grapes, small and unripe,
scattered around like loose change
and juice stained the tiled floor like urine.
I sighed and hooked it back up onto the nail,
as others have done many times