IN AN IRISH BAR
NEAR THE END OF THE CENTURY

Shannon Borg

for S

Seven of us sat near the window our hands
curled around imperial pints while the late
sunlight reddened us through
the wobbly windows three p.m. and already too late
to get into the popular bars all of us
just sitting there staring at each other
or out the window at the still dead trees
just rained on till drops of sweet liquor fell
far enough into our individual darknesses
to land on something a lost pool began
to ripple out it was the place none of us had been
in a long time and feared where the women of us wanted
to kiss strangers no never marry just fuck them even though
they looked like our fathers and the men of us lost
the desire to kiss the women of us we all just lost
something we knew we should have but for one minute
forgot about and spend the remainder of our
lives trying to get back the glance from the ones
we would never stop wanting but would never
have the way their hair fell across
their faces their shirts fell off their shoulders
the leg curving down into the boot and that place behind
the knee we know is tender the inside
of an arm the pale skin we forget
about all day until the light is gone the only light
a glass of beer red on the table rippling
in its heavy glass wanting to get out