You’ll think me morbid, but I’ve thought about my final repose.
I would want a proper celebration: Eyes of stars, stomachs happy-full, hearts pounding.
A Wednesday evening in a Dublin pour house, I imagine:
The clogging, the fiddling, the peat fire, the dark-as-shadows beer.
And yes, too, a bit of reminiscing — when beer was scarce, and stomachs empty,
and all were prisoned by the fog of future worlds.
But then, so much as the fading light of a pub fire embered,
There being nothing to do but take what’s ours, to settle with breaths we’ve bated,
Release the cherubs and the demons back their way,
Soak in the lush of earthy notes and heart-high memories.
To let the warmth retire.
Yes — an end fit for vagabonds and kings.
In my forever sleep, I will count the time of The Blarney Pilgrim,
though I leave the steps, and the fire, and all the oceans of beer
to you.
