Rat Race

We sit on steps, surveying the chaos
all around us - fresh vomit on one side,
a streak of dried-up piss on the other.
Harcourt Street has descended into a
disaster zone of drunkards, some fighting,
some crying, some swaying from the inability
to hold themselves upright, and some on the
ground, thinking the concrete is their mattress,
having succumb to the dizzy spells that
can seem so freeing, yet are misleading.
Every action is made to move ahead
in the Rat Race, forever victorless.
And we look at each other while thinking
the same thing: what is the point of it all?

A veil of silence comes between us as
the noise of this newfound, well-worn battle
ground attracts our attention; screeches of
women in utter dismay over the
advances of groping men, whose laughter
is tinged with the subtly of what they
really want, masking their anger and their
resentment as they await their failure.
Bottles smash and fists are raised as blood spills
in the name of something no one knows of.
Confused astonishment strikes us as we
wonder how society still stands when
it falls apart so spectacularly
on nights like this, dropping to its scarred knees.

And we briefly become embroiled in this
showcase of Ireland’s Got Talent, when a
woman and a man encroach upon our
front row seats, her seeking a reprieve from
his forward courting, while his confidence
never shakes despite her hostility
to his loud and proud profession that he
“wants to be on you.” When he finally
admits defeat her appreciation
is shocking, but changes nothing about
the grain of truth that we have just witnessed.
The Rat Race is not the work we do but
the means to an end so we can sate the
self-destructive tendencies we love to embrace.