Among the Sheep
I’m a wolf
in the sheep pen.
Hear them talking:
golf, rugby,
surface shit.
Class doesn't exist here.
Never did in Ireland,
they say.
So why do I feel
like predator
among prey?
Beige.
Pastel.
Plastic.
That's the image
they curate.
Class isn't wealth.
I have that now.
Class is hardship.
Always was.
"How hard was your shit?"
Think of the worst
you can imagine.
Then live it.
You might
taste a fraction of it then.
I came from nothing.
Built more
than they'd ever dare dream.
But the only way
was to pretend…
beige, pastel, plastic.
Perform sheep
just to move among them.
The disguise is slipping now.
Can't maintain it
much longer.
So here's what's left:
I'll take what I need.
Then I'm gone.
No drama.
No revelation.
Just:
the wolf
walking out
of the pen.
They'll keep talking
about rugby.
Never knowing
what was among them.
- UpsilonA
The sheep don't know they're born.