Walking to the boat.

Home grown feet in hobnailed boots,
belt synched tight. Still a half hole short
of keeping eyes and cheeks dry,
and chest from falling on damp cobbles.

a leather punch and a bottle
of something cheap, will make it all
evaporate by morning time.
Dublin is a curse. But London?

It’s no redact or absolution.
I walk in chains, steps to far,
a bar beckons from the river
but a sup of that might kill me.

A busker breaks my hollow heart
with four green fields, a poets ear
the antidote is in a gin bottle
but that way lies steep river banks.

A mattress of cardboard boxes.
Sweet Jesus save me from that
to be another Irish tramp
living dead on the embankment.

Home costs brass and my ass is bare
legs walked deep into the recesses
of sharp ancestral memory.
Works in London but no you there.

A boat full of weekday refugees,
caught between blue sky and green sea.
It’s the only way suits me, Chester,
Birmingham, London.

The train down is an easy ride
but moving homes don’t mean moving hearts.
I am going. But the man that is me
will remain forever. Home

-Dave Kavanagh

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