People who have no imagination
‘Twas wet outside the RDS in Ballsbridge,
under the bus shelter there was light against dark outside.
It wasn’t that I had no raincoat
(I’d saved money on showers)
nor the 2,016 strides to the Summit pub
– it was strangers-in-want that held my attention,
the black and the white
Mozambique and Mill Street,
Marrabenta and Riverdance.
They were talking in pauses
and the back of her hand brushed his sleeve.
I bet neither of them remembers
the advertising placed by Adshel.
I was the only eavesdropper
with tickling drops of Irish moisture
massaging my humour.
You might well say there are “people who have no imagination”
but certainly they weren’t waiting for a lift.