A Pub, a Pint, a Poem: Perfect

This morning I woke up ravenous. I wanted to devour Jesus at the rail during mass. I almost spoke those famous lines from Oliver Twist to the priest, who handed me a meager piece of the bread of heaven, “Please sir, can I have some more?” 
I spent the entire day before walking, seeing the city of Dublin on foot. There is a bus that stops at 24 of the city’s most popular attractions. By the end of two days I had seen all but three. Gallery’s, history and archaeology museums, writers exhibitions, writers memorials, libraries, writers homes, writers museums, churches, cathedrals, breweries, famous pubs, the college, architecture, Guinness everything. I was nackered. And eating. No time. No room. Old books to see. Guinness to drink. I walked the city  during the day and again at night. Walks are wonderful. Walking in Dublin is wonderful. Walking in Dublin with a pretty hand to hold is wonderful too. Even if said hand refuses to jump the locked park gate and prevents you from playing on the swings. But that’s ok, there are better things to do in Ireland. You can cross the street at all the wrong times, yell at the people taking viking tour, fend off your friendly drunk fellows, argue about the northern star, wonder about sheep and cows and make bets about febreeze, kiss on the playground. You can’t go on the swings though. It’s Ireland in the autumn. I hear it’s like Paris in the winter. Or Boston in the fall. 
Needless to say, I’m starved. So I’m having a Guinness. Thinking about the beautiful city. The things that happen. The things that don’t. Hands. The things that never happen. If they really never happen or if sometimes you just get lucky. I suppose if wanted to be anywhere where luck might be on your side it would be Ireland. But go in autumn. Trust me.  

To behold beauty alone, alone?

The dream-cloud headed poets goal.
But needless say how many try,
How many innocent red roses die,
How many metaphors stand to fail,
How many lovers grow cold and pale.
To behold beauty alone
Is to catch the air. 
Impossible! Beauty is sorrow
Unless she’s shared. 

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