ON THE WAY TO DONOVAN'S

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
TWO IRISHMEN REMEMBERING AN OLD TEACHER.

Submitted: January 15, 2010

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Submitted: January 15, 2010

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I hear Father Thompson’s dead
Who once flogged boys to Hell
And back, Kennedy said, his black
Sweep of hair moving in the wind,
The smoke from his cigarette passing
Over his shoulder like a ghost in

Flight. Yes, the old fart’s gone now,
Bailey said, remembering the mean
Look in the priest’s dull eyes; the way
He shifted the sleeve of his gown to
Bring the thin cane faster down upon
The bare behind of some wretched boy;

The thin line of the mouth, the balding
Head; and many a time, since he’d
Wished him dead. Kennedy drew
Heavily on the cigarette; gazed at
Bailey with a glint in his eyes: how
About a drink or two at Donovan’s

And talk of old times, he asked,
Giving a nod and worldly wink.
If you’re buying, I’ll not say no,
Bailey said, remembering the long
Walk to the priest’s room and the
Sun pouring through the tall high

Windows of the corridor; the fear
In his young soul as he knocked
At the door. Gone, good riddance
To his damned soul, Kennedy stated,
Entering Donovan’s bar, catching
The smell and warmth; seeing Polly

Cleaning tables, her fine figure and
Dark brown hair pushed all thoughts
Of Thompson and his dying from his
Mind and he placed his hands playfully
About her waist and kissed her neck.
Bailey shook his head and moving on
Said, I’m glad he dead, the priestly feck.


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