THE EARLY HOUSES Poem by Harry Clifton

for Belinda McKeon
They're all strung out, our alcoholic brethren,
On an infinite chain of early-morning drinks
In joints like this one. Little grey people
Unlike you, though - people without a future,

Dapper folk, with nothing to say for themselves,
The daily chemical hit, not ecstasy,
What they are after. Not exactly one of them
Myself, but the degree of separation

Less by the year, I can barely stay awake
As Smithfield market dawns, on a last blind date
Between night and morning, early and late -
The forklift whiz and rumble on the ramps,

The Chinese hauliers, their tailboards down
For the weight of the world. Little Britain Street,
North King Street - haunts of the underdog
Who lives off scraps, returns to his age-old vomit . . .

One last glance, before we break away
Into past and future . . . Drizzle, dark before dawn,
The lights kept low, in deference to the wishes
Of the damned, in this strobe-lit gin-palace

Afternoon whites out, when the children come
To fling themselves at ecstasy, as I did myself,
And the binges start. For your company, much thanks,
In the underworld. Slán, and don't look back.