Saturday, February 23, 2013

Dante In Limbo

 
 
I could imagine golden boned Dante,
That exiled noble, waiting for Virgil
Under these drab perspex bus shelters
Queuing with us for the 45 @ 3.35,
To Bray - amongst the fag faced women
Wrinkled almost to death with their
Over laden shopping bags and husbands

Gone quite indifferent with each passing year,
Having broken conversations with the skies
Or with the coiled bends in the Liffey- in fact
With anyone who’ll  stop to listen anymore,
For everyone, even Beatrice, it seems there's a destination
With their unique number boldly embossed on it
For like the hairs on one's proverbial head
Death comes in minuscule well tempered steps,
Strolling like a fat sated dandy or Businessman,
Well healed and always hitting the correct notes
Causing sudden stirs or creating dramatic scenes
He loves an audience- And for heads to turn;
He who has seen it all- visible as a tramp
Musing without a word on the passer-by’s
Circling our thoughts, circling this Limbo
Waiting just out of the rain, waiting just like us.