Stephen McGuinness, writing, from Ireland.
Dry leaves of sycamores have
Fallen to the navvies’ excavations.
Evening, cold, is rolled across
The city’s winter-glow gloom.
Unlit Christmas, manhandled
Into place, hangs sullenly, waiting
For the sparked, switch-flick
That turns it on to life.
Cyclists, in their righteous
Superiority, glance over fearful
Shoulders at dark behemoth buses
That push and press to tight turns
The finger-pointing, indignant,
Bone-thin, journeymen, lightly
protected by inadequate,
Insignificant, flickering red lights.
Television glimmer-men peep
Behind apartmented curtains.
The yet to be lonely console
Themselves in advance of
Inevitable drama. Plots, played out
On hand-held, digital devices,
Shared with the air and any
Self-centrist that could care.
A screaming-sirened Garda van
Forces traffic through a
Pedestrian crossing as the
Green man calls us to walk.
The sergeant calls me a fucking
Idiot, mouthing silently, glaring,
Puffing up his hero chest, never
Knowing just how right he may be.
My hands are balled…
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