I listen to the lough wind
blowing hard against the modern cornices
of the hotel block
from the sixth floor
overlooking sad Sandy Row
that has more wooden pallets than degrees
the winding wet streets and backs
running lace-like through a patterned city
of blue communication lights
with its young elms beaten flat
against their stabilising posts
a sorry looking Japanese print.
The plush hotel bar is full of New World tourists
from the cruise ships
served hamburgers and fries, or bowls of Granola
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