With chilblains on his fingers and an icicle nose
John McGrath thought of those
Who were seemingly worse off than he
Living on the streets with no company
The beggars with nowhere to turn
And lonely people who always yearned
For a friend or a helping hand
A kind face willing to reprimand
John McGrath was not so poor
Yet of himself he was unsure;
He loathed the reflection gazing at him
With cutting cheekbones and pointy chin
He was a creature, what had he become?
Something drastic had to be done.
© Sophie Bowns 2011-2016