ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE

In the 1980s I worked as a Census Enumerator and rapidly became aware that the job entailed far more than simply delivering and collecting census forms.
The district I handled, Stranmillis in South Belfast, consisted chiefly of older properties that might best be described as shabbily elegant.
The occupants of the houses were themselves, for the most part, elderly and elegant in a timeworn sort of way, having clearly seen better days.
Where I’d expected to hand over a form and depart, I found myself, more often than not, having to remain to assist the house-holder with the completion of the paperwork.
Many of the people I met during my enumerating stint struggled to complete the document, either because of their unfamiliarity with forms in general or as a result of visual or motor difficulties that rendered them ill-equipped to deal with such a thing unaided.
It became increasingly apparent, however, that there was another reason why so many individuals required me to linger to assist them.
Most were house-bound, living alone, either as widows, widowers or those who'd simply been left behind by the tide of life. They were desperate for company.
There was a common denominator and it was aching loneliness.

 










MISS McCARTHY

Miss McCarthy by the window,
with a glass of Cork Dry gin,
watching as a band comes marching
making a god-awful din.
Watch the banners, hear the drummer
march on by, this Ulster summer.

Miss McCarthy, sixty-seven,
rounded shoulders, spreading hips,
smudged red lipstick, cupid-bow style
to accentuate her lips,
watches with a smile, sardonic,
drinking neat gin without tonic. 

In the gloomy first-floor bedroom
(in which, once, her parents slept)
on a sun-bright summer morning
she sways gently, hair unkempt,
cursing life that, once abundant,
left her here washed-up, redundant.

Tired old bra beneath her cardie,
saggy breasts hang down like fruit,
wrinkled buttocks heading southwards,
all the rest in hot pursuit.
Miss McCarthy, lonely, boozy:
when it came to love, too choosy.

In the street, beneath her window,
children frolic with a pup.
She’s been here for half a lifetime,
waiting, but Life stood her up.
Watch the banners, hear the drummer
march on by, this Ulster summer.