Brian Kirk

The Poor

Brian Kirk

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The air grew cold, the night was at my door,
The city slept where it could find a bed,
Who said that we will always have the poor?

Whoever said it must have been so sure
That he or his would never want for bread.
The air grew cold, the night was at my door.

The starving woman must be judged a whore
When all she does is keep her children fed. 
Who said that we will always have the poor?

I watched the moonlight steal across the floor,
I thought of all the innocents who bled,
The air grew cold, the night was at my door.

I couldn’t sleep, my eyes were raw and sore
From dwelling on the lives that many led.
Who said that we will always have the poor?

I wished I had the courage to do more
Than lie awake at night and hold my head.
The air grew cold, the night was at my door,
Who said that we will always have the poor?


Brian Kirk


Brian Kirk is an award winning poet and short story writer from Dublin. He was shortlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh Award in 2014 and 2015. His first poetry collection After The Fall is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry in 2017. His novel for 9 -12 year olds The Rising Son was published in December 2015. He is a member of the Hibernian Writers Group and he blogs at www.briankirkwriter.com.

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