Oliver Plunkett Pub pillars teach me Irish. Irish Coffee. It is wet. Pig. A lovely day. Salami and bacon in the greenery plate. Ribs reddened with sauce. Children game with appropriate boards and pieces. Three musicians are the sort who use hands: strings and then an accordion. Sound drenches the pub. The rain of singing voice on occasion. Dancer’s shoes on tap, white and black footfall and rise. Someone says maybe too many potatoes, his belly a small drum on his torso, but he leaps. Here and there, a half of two looks at the other. Most eyes have years. Decades like tall black tables that need stools. Michael Collins framed on a bike. What is to be done with the night that hangs with little stars, the one science promises is above thickened clouds. The street will soup. We live our lives coming and going to liquid. If your hands are umbrellas, hold them.
