FINE LINES

 

There is a man, in the rain, in a hat,
getting wet, growing mad,
calling connards to the penguins
of Parisian pedestrians plodding past him.

There is a man, with cigars and a beer,
by a bin, full of madness, next to tourists
lost in maps as the rain pours down
on the wrong choice of shoes.

There is madness descending
on cursing cars and pelting rain,
on pedestrians pushing and babies crying,
on tourists tutting by one man who laughs
at them all, at it all, at nothing around him
and the chaos inside him.

There is rain on the man
on the side of the street
with a certain kind of scent,
who stores papers on his pockets,
the written worries of the world,
a madness that his mind cannot fathom.

There is a madness manifesting
in multiple ways in man and his muddles
next to puddles in the rain, by a bin,
on a street, at a pedestrian crossing
Where tourists are waiting their turn.

There is a fine line that divides
all the roads we can cross
and the madness
we cannot seem to conquer.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Published by deuxiemepeau

Published poet, writer, baker and former fashion maker, with footprints in Paris, London and Amsterdam but currently back home in Dublin with sights aimed at leaving a mark on the West coast one clear fine day...

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