From out of the pub, the drunken man stumbles.
Into the black car park at 2 am, he falls.
All carparks look the same.
Lonely, dirty, quiet and painfully lit.
A white cat walks slowly by,
it is so hungry; each step brings it pain, and it will soon die.
The drunk stops by a light pole and leans against a green bin.
It was here one week ago
his friend was punched and killed.
It was on this spot the man died.
A red mark stains the ground; it looks like old, dried blood.
Here is another death. The drunk thinks about his dreams,
which, like the blood,
are now dried spots in lonely places.
The beer burns in his guts, and churns,
a sharp, hot wind blows grit.
Work again tomorrow, that depressing place.
His hand numb with drink and life holds him steady against the cold bin
and he cannot remember to which town his ex-wife
has moved his children.
Christmas is coming soon.
David G O'Sullivan 