The Eccentric Fom The Dublin Road Poem by Joe Hughes

With dirty grey overcoat and fingerless gloves,
He sat halfway down the Franciscan church,
Next to the aisle
- Always next to the aisle.
The priest recited the first half of the Hail Mary,
He responded clearly with the Holy Mary -
The rest of his prayer became a mumbled blurb.
The Our Father and Glory Be suffered the same fate.
At the end of the service he prayed at each of the statues,
Touching the feet obessively of each one in turn.
From there he made his way to his shop
On the Dublin Road.
The shop, a dark institutional green, smelled forebodence.
Here he repaired sewing machines.
There was a tiny, iron letterbox on the door
Through which we would stare
Into a cavernous, black nothingness.
Nothing more was visible through the shop window -
We checked it routinely,
Peering past its solitary, dusty Singer sewing machine
As it sat undisturbed for all my boyhood years.
We'd stare through the letterbox and window,
Twelve eyes waiting for the unimaginable,
Until someone would shout, 'He's coming! '
We'd run right and left, hearts thumping with fear.
We were cruel.
Staring, giggling and intrusive.
We never got to know him.
He never spoke to us.