Dirt-poor and Balbriggan born
Into the arms of a mother
No longer breathing

Raised by a stone-hearted
Man with a catholic core
Finnian’s soul was gentle
As his ship left the port

He flirted with death
And French boys
Sipping on
Cigarettes and skin
In the alleys of cafés

He found a home
In Marseille

Less of a home, more
A small rented room
With a bed for a
Half dozen men
To break his heart

In a small mirror
By the window
Of his room
He sees the decades
On his face

Time is not
A boon

His glass overflows
With homeland spirit
As he raises it up
To the night sky
With just enough
Air in his lungs for
An Irish goodbye