June 16th 2002

Near mid summer's day, Ireland played Spain.
We walked out into the summer rain
waving green. Padre Pio had sent word from heaven
on d'at morning, 'that he had arrived':
Jimmy Joyce wandered about the town again
looking for Molly Bloom.
A lost wife called my number
on father's day to speak about the future.
Between the pillars of James's Gate
and the fifth lamp on Amien's street
the only doubt, about
the confluence of 'dese miricels,' is:
They took so long to conjugate
amongst Cathoics and chocolates.
In the text of a heretic
it is complicated (as Jimmy Joyce found out)
to be a Dublin Catholic.
Walking back on worn cobbelstones
between the holy spiress of John's Lane church
and the baptismal font of Francis street
with the scent of porter on your breath
in the footsteps of Matt Talbot
in the jiggs of Tim Finnegan.
Seeking the back door of a lost lounge bar
once frequented by my old granda
who was a Dublin Fuselier
which leads (like Thomas Acquinas)
eventually, into heaven.

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