Last Call

Horse chestnut
uncanvassed in deep green
sears my insides
and the amber liquid
dribbles down my chin
in jest (again) -

I’m staying for the night,
the whipping wind braids my hair seven times
the peat smelling up even in early morning
in September, as I walk in cold, lonely boots
down Great St. Georges Street.
Not a soul, but smoke and box-like building faces
before the eastern wave
took its place and they ceased to avert
their eyes southward, like a battered child.

My once young constitution,
six Guinness at my feet, downing
boys like water.
In the dampness of night,
the gods sing tattletales in the midst
of window panes;
ingrained into our soul code
is a story that is constantly unravelling---
hagglers want it sold, hard and fast to them,
but they’ve not the blueprints
to see it built, as it is
fashioned, ravaged and bold.

The squeak of the wooden door locks,
so our dreams don’t
descend from their rains in the sky;
we’ll meet the sunrise in
a waterfall, no one is left
in the pub, just another heavy pour,
one flickering candle, and
our circumstance.

~ M. Lucia