I Feel For It - Poem by Esmond Jones
Dust. Rubble. Caterpillars.
I’d known those walls well,
slept within them-as a man, chalked
my name on the black iron pillars
that held up the porch-as a boy.
The doorman couldn’t leave his post.
I’d only have to run across the road,
then stand my ground. Toad face!
Wanker! Kiss my Irish arse -
it’s got a shamrock on it!
He’d be livid. Gone now. Peacefully.
But this hotel, smashed to death
by ball and chain. Sad. Cruel.
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