Pining for St. Patrick

 

Maybe I’m making assumptions,

but I’m guessing folks

at O’Malley’s Pub

won’t exactly be pondering

the Trinity.

 

Sure, clovers are a-plenty.

Irish brews are green.

Every drunken lout

has been screeching Molly Malone.

 

If there was ever a White

Man’s Day then this is it.

Socks up to the knees.

The vacant, bloodshot eyes.

No one in line at the restroom

to simply rest.

 

It really doesn’t matter if

the snow won’t deliquesce.

If icicles mimic stilettos

over every Kelly’s head.

 

Yet if that had been the

case, in 433

AD, I’d imagine a

squat St. Paddy

taking a shovel to winter’s

end, its final belch of flakes,

hunting for a

shamrock that’s been

sober enough to stand.

Or maybe slouch and

a little tipsy. The weight of

a three-headed god.

Like Cerberus without the

drool. Never having to fetch

3 sticks at once. Something the

saint could carry in

his palm:

 

the Father is

the Son is the

Holy Ghost,

 

stupor on the face of

Danny Boy, who’s upchucked

his Kilkenny, unwilling to give it a

single rumination,

engrossed with having the

time of his miserable life.

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

March 17, 2026