Homeless In Dublin Poem by Mai Murphy Venn

The old man moves along Grafton Street in his worn-out rags,
All he possesses, he carries in his coat pocket and in plastic bags.
In his mind, he is wondering where he will settle for the night,
In the Phoenix Park, outside the Dáil, sure that would be all right.
The aristocracy frequent there, socializing in their finery and clatters,
While the homeless are starving, the wealthy eat from silver platters.
He, the Taoiseach, will never know what it's like to sleep by a door,
Nor what it's like to die alone in a doorway and on a frozen floor.
But this old man is far from stupid, he is a scholar with the highest degree,
Now he is old and feeble, lost, and wandering Dublin for all to see.
Winter is almost here, the leaves lay down in the Phoenix Park,
This old man walks the hobo's trails then slumbers in the darkest dark.