sitting in an irish bar, alone
in the month of st patrick
having the obligatory guinness
of course, sunday bloody sunday
comes on
there is no tv to stare at, in the corner I have chosen
so i do not have to pretend
I listen in to the revelers
recalling stories they have told each other a hundred times
I catch now familiar names
and begin to experience the stories myself
landscape absorbing the tales
their jocularity is infusion
even if, for just a moment
i finish with an ipa
feeling I have interloped quite enough
i leave a good tip
as if to stake a claim
but I am just passing through
a phantom
in a local’s place
drifting between stories and pints

notes…  written tuesday 3/12 when I decided to visit a local irish pub for some grub, this to me, is observational poetry, I am trying to take you into the moment, not sure if I succeed, that is up to you, with those eyes, reading this with your mind, thanks for the read, your comments are always appreciated.