Wednesday, August 28, 2019

The Irish Rover

(Astoria, Queens)

When Darren is at
the bar, don’t go far.
If Ania sees a stupid frat
boy, she’ll kick him scarred.

Gerry is a gentleman.
He keeps the place top
notch. When a man
is looking at crotches, stop

him. Ask Michéal to punch
him. A few regulars
are always there. A hunch
tells me you’ll see cars

lined up for Schilacci.
He’s my manager. He’ll
tell you of the bees
wax or the best feels

at the “worst birthday
party ever!” He’s clever.
He’s the best. If you say
you want a drunken fever

and to be a fool? Pull up
a stool, but Moses knows
how to keep all the pups
at bay. He can stow

a face in a trash can
if you ask him. Tuesdays
through Thursdays, Mike stands
broad shouldered and stays

till the house is clean
of crazies. He’ll toss
your ass out if beans
and marbles are lost.

(I said “beans” for rhyming.)
If you have bad looks
from a stranger, a shinning
eye will get your books

cleared—will get you
barred from the best
bar in New York City. Stew
on Irish messages. Jest

with Eanna and he’ll
treat you like a pal.
Call me a steel-
toed boot wearing Al,

and I’ll call you a
truth speaker. If you
know meyou’ll know a
woman named through

a war between her father
and mother. She’ll tell
you that daughter
called “The Grey Castle”

can sing better, for her
name in Gaelic means
Leslie. Yes, I shared
that meaning through seething

teeth. Don’t approach
my Mrs. It’ll get you
rosy punched and roach
kisses. You’ll be a few

inches under and food
for worms. Guess what?
The 25th anniversary brew
is starting on August

sixteenth. Two months
after Bloomsday.
I haven’t forgotten; cunts
can’t burn journal pages. Stay

true to the Irish Rover.
Never go over your tab.
See you soon over
At my bar, and save a cab

for home. You’ve earned it.
Now, get going and get lit.

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