My Friends and I Meant to Have a Quiet Night
But for some reason Kieran liked my reticence,
my refusal to smile or make eye contact an invitation
for advice delivered by booming baritone,
his sounds peppered with spit bits of saliva and scotch breath
which barreled straight for my ear’s delicate tympanic membrane.
“Buy a house in Connemara,
drink so much whiskey
you fly crying off your rocker
neglect all your family and whatever
friends you’ve got sing manic tunes
for long walks alone through bogs
flaming peat moss fires sending still-damp cinders
up into a swirling sky
which threatens to swallow you in deep gray mist.”
“To me that sounds lonely,” I replied.
“Oh it’s terrible lonely. You need to be
near suicidal to write! Off yer fuckin head!”
Now out for air, the city night rings so still.
Honest, a man leaning on a windowsill lights a cigarette
the bouncers confer in low tones, a girl spits on the pub door.
I look up. Full clouds have blocked the moon since September
but I know there is a waxing gibbous blooming
and I am still kind of happy to be alive.