Leaving Dublin we finally see

a bit of rain. Yet the freakish

too-late fall, of sun and flowers,

lingers in Temple Bar.

 

An Insular cat, element of Kells,

in shadow, should really, now, be

burnt on my insides, if not

tattooed on the flesh. You drop

 

your cap outside the hotel—hope

a guy busking near Ha’penny

ends up with it for winter. I forget

my umbrella for some stranger

 

in the hired car, which arrives

before dawn. Nice man, the driver,

with a son in South Carolina

mowing his lawn into the night,

 

for what he hopes will be the last

of the season. There’s been talk of

snow in St. Paul. No matter. Heading

for the wind in Boston is the fastest

 

way home. We bypass New York,

our beloveds, and Dear Bryce.

I’ll send a note asking after

his mother. Did they get the house?

 

Will his father make good every

promise he broke? Soon, all to live

under one roof, ready to welcome

the new gal. That’s how it goes,

 

you know, when the world rights

itself. The rain comes, while

people remember what they were

to each other. Back together—

 

some new incarnation. Or far, far

apart, praying to forget all the names.