Melting Pot

The paving stones are egalitarians
and care not for the skin or creed of the
feetfall bombarding ten-thousand
songs upon them
some tragic ballads
others funky rock tunes of brash youth
and still more
the free-form-jazz of lost tourists

Traffic lights hear everything and
speak all vernacular – lingo and inflection
they know half secrets and half truths
in Japanese or down town LA or
inner city Dublin
‘know wat I mean buddy, .. story wahhh’

The Statues on O’Connell Street
see all that passes by their still eye
without forgetting a single face
the white the black the tanned
the freckled the gorgeous the ugly
angled jawed Norman nosed furrow browed  
they file them all deep in their
folded bronze memories
            under ‘P’
for people