“every little grape calls my name”


Smoking off Kildare Street, I see a young couple stroll towards the car park on the left with two lads walking like Liam Gallagher shortly behind them, one dressed inna black hoodie with grey sweatpants and black runners and the other in an identikit discoloured uniform.  Heads burned red with greased black hair and the little fringe halfway down the forehead, they smoke and follow the couple down the concrete stairs. 

The durtie browned Romanian sits by the door and waves to me as I pass.  I return the greeting and continue my saunter as his request for money dissipates above his head.

An overcast humid Thursday evening and the cafe society enjoy their wine and anti pasta outside, interrupted occasionally by the young local wondering if they could help him finance a night in the hotel for homeless.  Ignoring their conversations I turn my durtie tanned head to across the street and see a man urinating by the doorway of a convenient store.  The zip is zipped and his water remains on the pavement.

 The gathered Americans walk by the Protestant college, and i can only imagine their thoughts of ,”why didint we go to Paris?”

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