Joyce

Illuminated by Parisian-like lights
a faint figure, a walking stick, a hat,
a pair of thick glasses softly tread the streets of Dublin
steps invisible, just barely to be heard
is the dark black stick
gently touching both trodden and untrodden paths
kissing the ground every time with a trace of desire
and desperation
for the hand at the other end
knows just bitterly too well
that all that remains in its grasp and palm
is sheer emptiness, cold phantoms of the past
surpassing the cold of the night
In a moment of sentiment the city
clears the blurry figure just a little bit
every night a bit
I pray the figure gets cleared completely
gets once completely
home.

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