They call it The Great American Ghost Town.
Crystalline chandeliers are home to spiders sheltering in Grand Ballrooms
From the murder and mayhem outside.
Blood on the pavement and in the sewers
But the oriental carpets just show evidence of rats
No use to the police, as run down as the buildings, in their own way
Plod plod plodding on
And so the rain falls softly on the roofs of mouldering mansions.
O’Connell Street is dark to those used to clashing neon.
Empty arches provide space for the tears of a dead architect
There should be people here.
Weaving cloth and friendships and families and politics
But we stay indoors out of the Dublin drizzle
We fear the landlord instead, knocking for the rent
And running without hearing a word spoken of the mould and broken locks
Keep calm and carry on
The spiders learn far faster.