Alan Catlin- A Poem

St. Patrick’s Day as Hell

After the early A.M. arrivals, the three day bingers,

            eyes like pin holes in a black canvas;

After the heart attack machine, flushed face turning

            blue, a bite of corned beef on rye still

            lodged in his throat;

After the ambulances go,  the police cars, Black Maria

            wagons,

After an Irish cheer for the band, empty pint glasses

            thrown against a wall and the shot glasses

            that followed;

After the banshee wail, impromptu a capella singer,

            her wild red hair aflame with the light from

            a No Exit sign,

After the penny whistles, rogue bag pipes, fiddlers

            on speed and homemade acid;

After the relentless crush of revelers, the fetid air inside,

            thick as smoke following  a terror bomb raid;

After hours in the bar, the blood draining morning toward

            dawn, rounds of Irish and Stout for the help,

            the Oblivion Ha Ha beckoning, Yeats with a

            magic flute gesturing to follow him this way

            into the dark.