"This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air. - W. B. Yeats

Sunday, October 10, 2010

An Irish Drinking Poem

I am a speck in the sky.
An hour ago, patting down my face
in the ladies' toilet,
it occurred to me that from the ground
I would be invisible in the infinite.

So I think I'll have a strong drink,
and idly watch the ground go by,
vast and tiny,
all at once.

Another pint here.
Another red-haired man here.
Another tongue, another bite,
Another button-down shirt.
Another pint.

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