The Irish Rover
Will you look at my lyrics, god of music?
A man can look out of place, he said. I looked at him, wondering how his bright feet had come to muzzle up against the gently breathing waves in Tiburon. He’s no sweeter here in Tiburon than when in Cork. The man’s voice has left rust on places where musical gods have trodden. He looks at my words, this eternal mover of unmoving blues, and spits them into the bay waters to fester beneath the foaming scum.
At four in the afternoon, with the sun’s syrup falling over Sausalito, I hear his laughter and smell the odour of his leaving. The doors of the Green Inn can never be opened again. If I forgot my pain, if I turned a page of gold and shined the Sausalito stones, if I turned his head and threw him a lyric, then, maybe then, I could be a god, too.
But his songs will beat their love on the air and in the hills above Sausalito.
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