Ye olde bar

Ye Olde bar

I sit at the bar.

A man stands, making leather belts.

He is ill concerned with the patrons.

Americans telling stories about America.

There is no music - only the sound of pints

on wood

of mumbling voices - of the scrapes 

of leather being cut and brushed.

My pint came free - courtesy of the American

who felt he pushed in ahead of me -

paid his way - guilt free - and I toast Sláinte

simply to say thank you.

I read of Men and Gods and men who can’t find

their warriors 

Of men whose mothers prefer them to be called their son’s wife.

I eat cheese I brought in the shop down the road

I stick to myself.

I don’t want to talk to these men.

I want to feel the quiet movements of the leather worker

his tobacco pouch showing -

his clothing appropriate for his age.

And me?

I’m still wondering about that. Is this odysee to Ireland a lost cause?

Or is there a fierce god energy trying to come through me?

Set me loose upon an open field?

Find me dancing naked upon the sea shore?

The only thing is:

I haven’t lost this battle

My heart is still on fire 

and who knows what wave may put it out?