Dublin

Here, histories mingle

like fingers meet at a palm.

Early mornings in the city, waking—

I run along that wrinkle between thumb and writes,

cobblestone walkways

laying ground

to high-rise McDonald’s signs

and German tour guides,

foreign sneakers pounce

to capture the city as it wakes—

with flash.

The valley between figures

crinkle with littered paper—

sidewalks lined with the Irish Times

read,

yesterday’s stories crunch under

rushing business feet,

ink blotched from last night’s beer, sloshed—

mache carpets of crosswords

and local marriage announcements.

And Joyce orders a pint

at the base of my palm—

Wilde writes

on a stool beside my forefinger—

and Mr Kavanagh reminds

to inquire about him

in a hundred years’ time.

I keep them,

city souvenirs stolen from the Writer’s Museum;

I keep them

to sit on my windowsill back home;

I keep them

cupped in my hand,

to reread

for that three hour bus-ride back to my Galway.