Summer 1988 • Vol. X No. 3 Poetry |

In Irishtown

He is taking her to task On the front porch, their quarrel Traveling the sidewalk. Embarrassed by his reddened Cheeks, his trembling jowls, His whining accusations, I make myself their judge, Their dumb apologist, Peeping through a haze, Deciphering the ragged Gestures of desperation, The dialect of pain. Stranger though I am, I stop beyond the streetlight And make myself at home— A helpless, well-intentioned Healer in foreign dress, Calling at a house Where tainted clothes are burnt And illness, being Human, has no cure.

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He is taking her to task On the front porch, their quarrel Traveling the sidewalk. Embarrassed by his reddened Cheeks, his trembling jowls, His whining accusations, I make myself their […]

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He is taking her to task On the front porch, their quarrel Traveling the sidewalk. Embarrassed by his reddened Cheeks, his trembling jowls, His whining accusations, I make myself their […]

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