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No 7 - February 1998
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| D.A. Prince |
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| God bless .... |
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Know him? He was here most evenings, hawking drunk
in that corner. God knows how he’d the cash
but he reeked of whisky. ‘Paddy and a splash’ -
that was his drink. Slept rough, stank like a skunk
and talked just to himself, in accent thick
as Liffey Guinness. Got him? No one, try
as they would, ever uncorked his name, why
he’d fetched up homeless. Here, or in the nick:
same difference. Near closing time, the cold
or else the Paddy rattled him. ‘God bless ....’
he’d shout, beer-swillers parking drinks, speechless,
until ‘... the Pope’, he spluttered. Gossip rolled
back then, bar flotsam - sometimes cars, sometimes
the price of things. But never him. And not
his nightly raucous faith, or ghost of what
school had imprinted - something stuck, like chimes
adrift; his badge, belonging. Did it warm
his bitter nights in damp allotment sheds,
foul greasy sacks, with dirt-stiff rags his beds?
put fire in his soul, strength in his arm?
More like the drink. Faith was just froth, false hope
of heaven like a hostel, roofed, rent-free.
Someone to take responsibility.
But no one helped him here. No God. No Pope. |
page(s) 41
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