Llywelyn's by nine,
with its dark brown tabletops
and counters that stretch out
like a thick Irish ale
turned on its side
so that I can drink in Dublin,
drink down the Emerald isle,
and make the conversation last
and last and last and
at last,
the world is buzzing
with heavy heads, not heavy hearts.
Like Ross always says,
"It goes down smooth,"
so I take him at his word
and survey 'round the room -
the smoke with its swirled curves,
that hang on every turn
of every face
of every table
where every flavor can be found
in Henry's dark chocolate eyes
and Becky's sour glare,
Hohler's forgotten sovereignty,
and Ross too smooth to care…

01/24/2003

Author's Note: A little pub in St. Louis' Central West End. Maybe the first place I got drunk??

Posted on 06/17/2005
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