Drunk with a Dry-Ginger bottle

Oblivion like this was never gained
from Canada or any other dry.
Whatever flavoured ginger wiped out rain
and Abbey Street. Mind out of time he lies
beneath a flaking fire-escape uncaring,
rubbish-cluttered, stair-protected, staring
shut-lids up to where the sun should be.
We view this city differently and though
my vision’s clearer here perhaps he sees
in his unfocused alleyway of days
a beauty and a warmth that’s lost to me
as I walk fed and clean – a tourist-eyed
name-only Irishman who treads the bleak
and tattered magic of a Dublin street.

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