The Night We Were Irish

We were Irish the night we danced straight till morning, the water and whiskey pouring from our veins, soaking our polyester and cotton. All the hopeful glances from all the pretty girls were locked away perhaps for other hopeful boys and as dawn approached, we keyless, ventured out into the nights, leaving behind the thumping and jumping the sitting and swallowing, spitting and vomiting. not for an hour, not till the buses brought in the early morning commuters, the daily churchgoers, did we at last forsake our search for shelter and curl up on wooden benches for a moment to rest our eyes. our feet. our heads. Our false accents faded with our failure. The birth of morning light invaded like fire ants in the cracks of our dried out skulls. And the cool morning cried cold tears upon our weary fetal bodies.

We at last despaired. And caught the first train home.