Poem

Mother and child in a winter doorway
Wrapped in a blanket of Irish apathy
While Phil O’Byrne texted into the Late Late show last week
During a segment about refugees
Saying, “We should look after our own first”.

I wait for a while to see if Phil will arrive
With money, hot soup and a bed for the night
No such luck.

The child sneezes green snot onto his face
Which his mother lovingly wipes away
With the palm of her hand.
Somebody passing by mutters ‘bloody junkies’
I’m not sure if he means mother or child
Or both.

‘But at least their Irish’, I say, ‘At least their our bloody junkies’
He nods sagely, ‘Bloody refugees’, he agrees

Bloody Junkies
Bloody Refugees
It makes you bloody proud to be Irish really.