In the mock parlour room, people come and go.
No one speaks of Michaelangelo.
The words are thin and the wit is dull.
Arrogance saturates the air. No lull.
The Liffey water turns green, olive, matt black.
The lights upon it are buttered mosaic, forth and back.
The moment of grace is brief and it is bright.
It is sign-posted by no hot spotlight.
I want to drum my heels, point and shout:
Talent is here; talent is out.
This poem was originally published on the Poethead blog.
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