Lost in the Liberties, Dublin

Charlton, a crucifix, chips.  Bono throbs.

The crowd throbs.  In ghost-getting smoke:

soccer sides, widening wives, a priest

pushing the pledge, hookers, a drunk druid -

blow-ins from rain and the cofferdammed dark.

A register rings.  Coins and voices ring.

Guiness-gilded, the old-timer's flapping foam

over poets and Plunkett, Joyce, Jack, the Cup...

the guiding idea pride in a pint, dying.

I'm after a solo hike to Viking sites,

Kilmainham, the bullet-blasted P.O.,

the crypt at St. Michan's where a nun, a knight,

and footloose crook lie exposed,

undeniably biting dust.  And so, lost.

The old man points my way: Marrowbone Lane

to Cork, Ardee Street to The Coombe, flinging

foam with his gestures, the glad grace of asperges -

he's pleased with my presence, touched by his own.

The juke shuffles Springsteen for U2.

The wizard winks, teeth staccato, beard

blackened by ash:  "You've time for a pint?"  I do.

John J. Ronan