by Angela McCabe

They’ve been talking about
you walking all day
in circles with your
head painted white.
It’s snowing. Your black Zen mac
is drenched.
Performance Art.

You were walking when they
went to work at the docks
walking when they came back for lunch.
Quitting time now
you’re still treading the same circle
around York Street.

They huddle in groups
and place their bets,
“He’s praying” “He’s meditating
or trying to sell us something.”
“Or else he’s feckin’ mad.”
Beckett’s ghost follows you
makes another circle
lets you float off again.

You stay in step with us
slow, steady, silent
mourning this city of broken dreams.
A human form masked
in white scrim asking
“When disaster strikes
do we wash the blood
heal the victims or polish the floor.”

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