THE TAVERN

It lies at a crossroad

between dusk and dawn,

drunkenness and drought,

gluttony and famine,

between what’s known

and what’s not,

between disillusionment

and amazement,

desire and death,

dreaming and the 

moment bleeding 

beneath our bare 

and bunioned feet. 

It’s as spacious 

as an open field

and has on tap

only the purest tonics

to clear our manic minds 

and to mend the

rankles and the ruptures 

that keep scalding our

breaking broken hearts.

All are welcome

at this ramshackle road stop 

but most only look in 

as they pass by, never taking

their saved-seat

at the long-wide table

in the back corner

framed by the glaze 

of the moonlit window

where the sessions 

never end and the trio 

keeps playing reel after reel, 

the endless variations on 

the mystery of love and loss

that lilt like lightning bugs

inside the incandescence 

of an ancient Irish air.