Perspectives On Poverty-2.

In the middle of a Melbourne
Refuge for the homeless
carrot shavings curl grittily
onto a silver sink.
My fingers soak in the stain.
Peter’s brain damage
has lent him
a free-flowing, unceasing,
impervious loquacity.
He has always been a word man:
worked as a sports journalist.
So many cask wines
and brain cells later,
his life is a betting agent
and pub crawl
with occasional gutter fall.
He talks; I listen.
He talks; I peel carrots.
From memory’s medley
of fact and enhancement
He talks courses and horses
and of a journey to Ireland
with trainers and jockeys.
You know, he says to me,
the most extraordinary
thing about Ireland
Is the depth of the silence,
the remarkable silence.
It is an aptitude of air
unique to the place
that permeates the blood, the bone,
each cell, each one, aerating the soul.
And in moments of simplicity
at sink with carrots,
its grace works, a world away, for both of us.