Apache or Cherokee or Bourgeoisie?

The lines of a Paul Durcan poem left in a comment by Skyroad where still echoing in a lower strata of my subconscious (somewhere between "things-you-ate-and-made-you-sick-but-you'll-do-it-again" and my "top-5-secondary-school-teachers-and-their-cleavages") as I got back home this evening and spotted them through the uncurtained mock tudor windows.

I think that Mrs Raheny spotted me though, because the 2 liter Tesco Value bottle of cider disappeared from view while I was grabbing my camera.
With the three of them sick and at home, I know that I'd be on much stronger stuff myself.

Here is the fragment of the poem that I'll have to hunt in the local library (conveniently located at the bottom of Library Road in Dun Laoghaire) as I could not find a full version of it online. Which is a shame for me. But fortunate for Paul Durcan, as more people may be tempted to buy his books (or visit the local library) if they cannot scavenge what they are after online.

''Windfall', 8 Parnell Hill, Cork' in which, having been divorced, he is:

'Blown about the suburban streets at evening,
Peering in the windows of other people's homes,
Wondering what it must feel like
To be sitting around a fire --
Apache or Cherokee or Bourgeoisie --
Beholding the firelit faces of your family,
Beholding their starry or their TV gaze...'