WHITE FLIGHT

In his shirt sleeves in the freezing cold
Huddled schoolgirls shy away giggling
At the crazy old white guy
Who greets them every day
How are you?
Hello hello!
Keep up the good work!
Happiest days of your life!

Their mothers frown and hurry past too
This country!
Who is to care for him?
Has he no son?
Has he no daughter?

By the evening his mood has changed
He's in the all nighter
Crying into the chill cabinet
Still in shirt sleeves
Demoted
Marginalized
Reduced to the ranks of abandoned trash
Washed up by the tide
Left behind in the flight

There are new white people here now of course
The kind who smile and step aside
As he makes his way back to the counter
To the young man who has been watching him

What is it you want the young man asks
The old man weeps
I can't get anyone to help me
I just can't get anyone to help me
There's no-one here to help me

Come, says the young man, linking arms with him
Show me, show me
Show me what it is you want Mr. Carson
And he sighs
You know Mr. Carson, always you are getting so upset

That was the last time I saw Mr. Carson
It was a cold winter
Not shirt sleeves weather
I used to wonder sometimes what had happened to him

Then

Sweet Jesus
Mary
And holy Saint Joseph
You old blurt!
There you are!
On the steps of the gouged out house of the agringados
A labourer is rhythymically mixing cement as you talk on and on

Is that a fact? the man says, his head bowed
Is that a fact? in time with the thrust of the shovel
Used to be a brickie did you?
From Skibereen you say?