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Above the ruckus & din of Dublin—
busker song, busses muttering
in the insistent dialect of diesel,
tourists discussing wool & tweed,
whiskey & the Book of Kells—
church bells call out deliberately
the twelfth hour, thus reminding us
we’re halfway between yesterday
& tomorrow, though after the first
toll we’re closer to what’s ahead,
whatever loss awaits. A young man
implores each of us for Euros
moving from stranger to stranger
with a story we’ve heard before—
a sick mother he needs to see
or else a daughter hungry at home.
So many imperatives on this street.
So many pigeons chests puffed out
like footballers after a win.
All aluminum & glass, the streetcars
might well have been ordered from
some sci-fi utopia, & last week
I rode one past an 18th century
abbey & the squares of lost saints.
The woman five time zones west,
does she live in the country of the past
or of the future? We’ve counted
the passport stamps of heartache
& hope. The bells stop finally,
their last vibrations in a frequency
only angels can hear. Addressing them
by pet names, I quietly petition each
then take coins from a pocket. Tithe.
Gerry LaFemina’s many books include Baby Steps in Doomsday Prepping (Madville Publishing, 2019). He teaches at Frostburg State University in Maryland.
Copyright 2021 Gerry LaFemina
Excellent poem. Thank you.
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A wonderful evocation of an amazing city.
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