“What about the working man?”
His roaring filled the street.
We were children scurrying
past, herd safety in numbers,
safety in distance, across the street.
“What about the working man?”
That was his challenge for every passerby,
arms flailing, old coat flapping, eyes blind
to everyone, to everything else but…
“In the trenches, he was, never right since.
They say when drinking he sees
the faces of men he killed up close,
with a bayonet.”
I heard that years later,
after he died, old age finally
granting him peace. Back then,
he spread his fear and horror
while we were children scurrying
past, herd safety in numbers,
safety in distance, across the street,
not seeing in his eyes
the dead men he saw,
dying closer to him
than we could ever dare to be.
Note – this is about a real person who lived in the same Parish as myself in Kilkenny City. It is also the last poem I shared with Denis Collins of Wexford before his untimely death in the last week. He was preparing an exhibition on the theme of Work for May Day. Alas it was not be, this was to be one of my contributions. On the Facebook page Kilkenny Down Memory Lane there were some posts recalling notable characters from days gone by, this poor soul was one of the people remembered. His battle cry remains as relevant as ever, “what about the working man?”