Paddy Boy

Like one hand clapping

in a darkened theater

to the swan’s song,

Patrick

sits at home,

alone,

and fights his disease

for as long as he can.

The empty house,

far from the streets of Dublin,

has a hint of ghostly cigarette smoke

from tobacco long since punched out--

seeping out of the wood floor and paneling.

His kitchen

is barren

except for a loaf of bread

and a teapot whistling.

There is a transparent television

he bought for his son,

who went to prison.

And as he walks around,

he grabs tabletops

and backs of chairs

with calloused hands,

responsible for years of rebel wars

and bricklaying.

His dog,

Molly,

the gentle boxer,

doesn’t bark at strangers,

and never leaves his side.

“She sleeps nex’ ta me inda bed,”

he says in a sweet brogue.

She’s all he has now.

His sons never call.

His ex-wife

Could care less.

She’s already getting what’s left of his money.

They gave him

Experimental drugs

And told him

He could have ten years left

If he takes them

Every day.

The P.O.W. experiences

were recess.

The brain tumor

was a paper cut.

The psych ward

was a vacation.

The toe amputation

was a minor itch.

Leukemia

Could be different…

“it’s not dyin’ tha scares me,”

he says.

“It’s bein’ alone

while ah do it.”

Molly cups his hand

between her paws

and licks his fingertips

as steam rises from the teacup.