THE IRISH GOODBYE

The Irish Goodbye*

* A hasty exit made without saying farewells to anybody. - Wiktionary

Or so they call it when someone slinks out

of a gathering without a word or nod

of farewell, disappears undetected

amid endless chatter with no one

realizing until much later, if at all.

An expedient way to go, I concede,

but not my style. For sure, it would be

a relief to escape being pressured

into one more drink or canape, or cornered

by Freddie Tremont with another yarn

about his military service in Kuwait.

But my sense of propriety dooms me

to make the rounds and feeble excuses

and apologies for leaving while all is still

in full swing, not that anyone gives a fig.

Wouldn’t it be worth my chucking formalities

to save myself from reprimands for refusing

to nibble on another stuffed mushroom

or the earlobe of Gertie Ferguson

who’s been come-hithering me

all evening simply because, drunkenly,

more so even than now, I complimented her

on the exquisite contours of her ears

at our previous tête-à-tête? Surely

the other stoned guests wouldn’t give

a hang about my shoving off without

so much as a ta-ta.

But after toying with the tempting idea

of departing in stealth, I give in to habit and go

from one to the other of my more intimate

acquaintances, saying how awful I feel

about leaving prematurely but, you see,

I have these other pressing engagements …

blah blah blah.

Finally, I search the entire estate for Reginald

Crumford, our host, to extend thanks and

parting words but he’s nowhere to be found.

Wondering if he might have retreated

to the terrace for a bit of peace, I hunt there

but spy him down in the twilit rose garden,

having bid the rest of us an Irish Goodbye

of his own while voraciously nibbling

on the earlobe of Gertie Ferguson

who seems no worse off with Reggie’s

slobbering mouth around it

instead of my own.

Red Line, Boston T

1. The Knuckle Cracker

Doesn’t matter the screeching,

squeaking, squealing, deafening

sounds of wheels on rail in the front

unheated car. The cracking

of his knuckles can be heard

above it all. The passengers

are in thrall, amazed. What started

as relief of tension in his first days

without work has proved to be

his calling. In between sets,

he pampers his hands with cream

and gloves. He drinks straight up

from a thermos. The beverage

doesn’t steam, but seems to warm

him well enough. A plastic cup,

his receptacle for coins, collects many.

His partner, the blind accordionist

in the last car has yet to top him

in their daily take.

2. The Hand Washer

He might well have apprenticed

with Lady Macbeth, but now,

in skill, outshines her. He twists

one hand as if to turn on an invisible

faucet, reaches with the other

for an equally unapparent bar

of soap, goes through the motions

of sudsing, rubbing, washing hands

vigorously, and rinsing, convincingly,

belying the lack of water. He shakes

off drops which are not there

and dries what needs no drying

He displays, for all to see,

chafed palms, a stigmata

of cleanliness, in a pose worthy

of St. Francis, whose prayer

for peace he incants.

3. The Laundress

Between her dark, hairy legs,

an oversized laundry sack glares

white. From it, she sorts under-

apparel, setting some on the bench

to her left, some to her right, not

by intended gender, color, or size,

but in a sequence mortals cannot

divine. Her closest neighbors

keep their distance. She takes notes

on each piece, writing in squiggles

on paper napkins that get stuffed

into manifold pockets of her coat.

When the sack is empty, she throws

the garments back in and begins

the process again, never sorting

the same way twice.

Clicks

Evenly spaced on a stone bench, Pinocchio

bobbleheads, conically capped, are spot lit

by the sun’s first rays. The gentlest breeze

sets the long noses nodding yes and no.

A lone photographer clicks, clicks, clicks.

Church bells reverberate in the square.

Street sweepers swish. Sparse footsteps

clack. His sole relief from isolation is to focus

on tableaux, where he takes comfort in a truth

he can impose and absorb. Distraction

invigorates him, amuses, enthralls.

It’s in ample supply as the square fills.

Two boys compete to see who can spit

grapes the farthest. Blind hand bell ringers

march in place, cling, smile endlessly.

The photographer can’t help but scurry

to capture all as gospel but quickly

is overwhelmed. He wants both to give up

and to give in. The Pinocchio heads,

capricious, bounce every which way.

He’ll be rewarded, he knows, whether

in this world or the next, if he continues

to exhaustion, so he throws caution

to the wind, puts his shoulder

to the wheel and clicks, clicks, clicks.

Philip Wexler lives in Bethesda, Maryland. Nearly 250 of his poems have appeared in magazines. His poetry books include The Sad Parade (prose poems), and The Burning Moustache, both published by Adelaide Books, The Lesser Light (Finishing Line Press), With Something Like Hope (Silver Bow Publishing), I Would be the Purple (Kelsay Books) and Bozo's Obstacle (In Case of Emergency Press).