SHITTY LITTLE SHIT TOWN

Erin Murphy

Came back to my Shitty Little Shit Town.
It’s different. Nicer.
Much nicer.

Thought it’d stay the same,
as if I could shout
‘wait for me!’
and it would listen.

Supervalu is now Big Centre;
three years of funding
finally finished that footpath;

O’ Crualaoi’s butcher’s was replaced by a cafe
– the coffee’s overpriced.
Met a friend there,
she’s outgrown her punk phase.
I’m still goth.

There’s a new bookshop
– not overpriced.
I can’t remember what was there before.
Another failed business?
Or one of countless lots built
before the Celtic Tiger roared its last
and left the shrivelled giblets of its prey?

The teenagers no longer wear White Fox.
I haven’t figured out what brand’s replaced it.
The hoodies I’ve seen so far are plain.
My sister wears hers like a status symbol.

I suppose it’s all fair enough.
Never had the patience to be a homebird,
I have no right to call it my roost.

Not a chance of me moving back anyway.
The place is still a shithole.