Our Father

Tom Tracey

Then that one time in Donegal – just once –
After my brothers had given their all –
Our father brought us to a local,
Having never quaffed a draught –
And in the draught of a door ajar
Stood us four pints as never before –
A man who never took a sip
Of the black stuff – but his lip
Moistened in anticipation of the jar
He was about to drink –
And in a heartbeat of his failing heart –
In the time it takes to blink –
He raised the Guinness to his mouth
And, shy of any talk of drought, drank deep –
And in the after-silence
Uttered simply: “Bliss.”

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