A True Story

A True Story -
'No blacks, no Irish, no dogs.
I read the rooms to let near
Gloucester Road, brushed my hackles
Flat and continued my search. Then

It wasn't the jibe of race but
The spot between black and dog.
My blood burned and my thick
Tongue filled my gob, blocking the
Words of release, black Irish dog.

I found a room, a den between two
Floors, a curtain to draw behind
And a bed for the neutral light. I
Found love too, more than my ire deserved.
She poured ointment on my tongue. I
Lapped affection, licked kisses on her face.

The dogs were rehabilitated first. The
Blacks legalised on penny postcards on shop
Fronts. I trimmed my words for the Anglo-
Saxon ear. Nothing remains but a green
Passport. Recently on returning from Paris
A customs official, concerned about rabies,
Asked if I were bringing in a dog.'

I read this poem by Leitrim-born poet Joe Sheerin (1941 - ) around 1979, copied it, tucked it into a book (Maurice Walsh's Black Cock's Feather) and forgot about it until yesterday when it fell out on my lap, while I listened to a debate on Gays being allowed to donate blood. I thought it an unusual coincidence. (There are lots more quirky tales on my 'Walking Tours of Galway', if anyone's interested. 

Please 'Like' my pagehttps://www.facebook.com/Galwaywalks if you like these stories! Brian)