do they not sweep the streets before you
I used to chuckle to myself
for often it seemed you walked in fear
of treading on broken glass

and gratefully I shared the wonder
of standing pedestrians
witnessing your snail’s procession
through the main streets of Dublin

you were the Cheeky Prisoner,
rude Mona Lisa,
an awkward teapot on a crowded Dart
Dracula, scourge of Moore Street traders
or simply the Blonde Vamp

best of all, was when you just stood still
leaving us hanging for your pursed lips
wrinkled forehead, arched brows
any sudden movement

but it wasn’t all fun
you worried us once in bloodied robes
your clown face weeping
for a suffering world

then your gaunt appearance
on the Late Late Show - apology to Mum;
your farewell wave in the Evening Herald;
the final procession to your resting place

McGinty, McGinty, your number’s up -
you winked, oh! you winked at death
rather you had blinked