Late Afternoon, Dublin
I sit on the slippery stone steps,
at the gates of my Father's heaven.
My back to the cold wall enough,
that men in dusty pants and
mud-laden boots can thump past,
their tired, weary legs fly fast
across my freckled face.
Father inside, far end,
a stool-throned King, his face not fat
and sometimes our eyes meet
through cloud and darkness,
when the door swings open
to let another thirsty angel in or out,
in this chamber, the trip from Hell to Heaven
is measured only
by the length of a glass of dark ale
or a honey coloured shot of sour whiskey.
Angie skips back and forth