The Celtic Tiger

Paws sandy

from prowling beaches,

belly wet with dew

from sulking through country grasses gone to seed,

cheeks and whiskers glistening

with seagulls’ blood,

feathers matted to their fur,

the Celtic Tiger stalks the Liffey,

unnoticed.

They move among bag-bearing

shoppers of Grafton and Henry Streets,

among bicyclists and motorists

queuing at red lights,

unnoticed.

They rest in Temple Bar pubs’ dark doorways,

climb apartment complex fire escapes

to bask in the sun,

unnoticed.

They haunt rubbish-strewn alleys,

dog footsteps of the drunk, the work-weary, the homeless,

unnoticed.

This city—this country—is their jungle.

They lie down to sleep by the docks;

in dying, their corpse rots,

sun and rain bleach their skeleton,

vertebrae protruding against the skyline

a monument to their presence.