White Horses

The city was all green, but I wanted nothing more than to stare into the sun. We meandered through the Park, giggling at the passers-by, chatting up the horses. Every pebble another adventure. If I looked closely, I could see the buds exploding. Spring washed over me and I was nothing if not willing to be swept away.

Rosy cheeks walked through the heart of the village to drink its beers. Eventually squeezing into the Tavern where Dylan wrote his words, where Jack sat, where legacy is carved into the wood bar. So close to home we forgot to turn on Morton Street, and this is my life. Turning the lights out in a room where nothing else fits once the air mattress has been inflated. (Whoever needs to get up first sleeps on the floor; it's easier that way.)

Kiss me, I'm Irish, he said. But I was far too busy, making eyes at the world.