a.
the pub was an obese rectangle, fortress
of concertina wire and overhead cameras,
programmed to record
our every stumble.
we looked up, hopeful,
caught the camera's sidelong glance,
marveled at the section of white wall
that was never fixed
after the last bombing.
looking innocent enough, or at least unknown,
we get buzzed through the gate. it is almost eleven,
and we have been thirsty
for hours.
i pull open the cranky metal door,
and there is too much light inside.
we cross the threshold, and
hold our breath.
two customers, both over sixty.
at either end of the bar.
one sullen, one smiling.
both: not yet drunk.
in the middle, a plump, ponytailed
barback, with pink pillows for cheeks
and tar-sands for eyes.
"walcum ta graceland, luvs..."
b.
period (finale).
when the end of an era is now.
comma (breaking up).
what happens on a friday night, in shankhill.
paradox (unexpected).
when a birth announcement is the same
as an obituary.
exclamation point (too exciting).
when a local rugby team refuses to lose.
my fifth grade teacher liked to say:
there is always good grammar, in belfast.
discos (chaos).
dour, droopy dolls, dancing desperately.
rooftops (exposed).
secret sniping spots, seductively singular.
buses (humming).
colossal commuter coaches, crapping carbon.
londoners (bragging).
metropolitan mentality, masquerading menace.
c.
down by the dock, where the titanic was built,
hipsters who pretend to have haloes
prefer sushi and tapas, speaking in brogues
of refined sugar, the festering poop piles
of each side's extremists
are murals that nobody wants to paint over,
this multi-millenial hatred is good for tourism,
or so says the black taxi driver,
with a prominent goatee.
question mark (wanting to know).
semicolon (still dividing).
d.
the pub is a perfect rectangle,
and a perfect shrine to elvis.
every available inch of wall, post, and doorway
is cluttered with grainy photos of graceland nooks,
and faded movie posters inside plastic frames,
and icons of the great white hope himself,
frozen in a state of perpetual youth.
in addition to a beef stew staple,
and an awkward attempt at pad thai,
the menu features peanut butter and banana sandwiches,
and, for this weekend only,
roast pig, a nod
to the luau scene in "blue hawaii," no doubt.
"ded elvis do drugs, luv?"
pink pillow cushions deflate, and her
smile disappears into a sea of beer foam.
we three outsiders stare at each other,
knowing for sure that he did, indeed,
do drugs.
"but elvis was a black belt, didn't ya know?"
i take a stab at something positive.
and now i see the bartender for the first time:
oozing tenacious clingings to glam gone
and fame faded, a virtual hermit in a fortress
made of sectarian fear and held up by clannishness,
left alone, someday,
to die, while pushing out
the shaped remains
of her last meal.
