[lit-ideas] SUNDAY POEM.
- From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: "LIT-IDEAS" <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sun, 19 Sep 2004 13:45:25 -0500
PAYING HOMAGE
See him asleep in the corner booth,
slumped over, soft as a baby,
bald headed little Irishman,
who would guess now
what a hell raiser he was,
so quick to his feet,
puffed up and ready for action.
How the women loved him,
remembering how he would stand
whenever they entered the room.
They all wanted to take him home
and feed him again and again.
Such an insatiable man.
It pleased them to feed him.
And when the music began
and river Guinness ran,
there was no stopping him then:
reel, jig, slip jig, hornpipe,
he danced them all, whatever the type,
danced them all, all through the night.
Two-four time to wild nine-eight,
he knew how to move,
and knew when to wait,
keeping to his partner's gait.
See him now, one pint and he's done.
But in his dreams he's still the one,
still the hero of his myth:
tall and big of width,
hard as a hammer,
a slammer-jammer,
never seeing himself slumped, asleep
as now in The James Joyce Irish Pub.
nub of a man, ah, there's the rub.
Mike Geary
Memphis
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