8/26 – “6- Dublin”
Here, histories mingle
like fingers meet at a palm.
Early mornings in the city, waking –
I run along that wrinkle between thumb and wrist,
to highrise McDonald’s signs
and German tour guides,
foreign sneakers pounce
to capture the city as it wakes –
The valley between fingers
crinkle with littered paper –
sidewalks lined with the Irish Times
yesterday’s stories crunch under
rushing business feet,
ink blotched from last night’s beer –
mâché carpets of crosswords
and local marriage announcements.
And Joyce orders a pint
at the base of my palm –
on a stool beside my forefinger –
and Mr Kavanagh reminds
to inquire about him
in a hundred years’ time.
I keep them
cupped in my hand
for the drive back to my Galway.