In a small Dublin pub,
Where a wooden door near the basement stairs would open around seven.
A different type of music would creep in as I asked for another drink.
It lead into a larger space,
And the younger Irish guys would dance throughout the night,
As they drank and flirted,
Picking out their favorites from the crowd.
I learned that some of us carry things for years.
A majority of ones life,
And that struggle doesn't have a citizenship.
When I asked you her name,
After I pieced the story together,
It was still too recent for you to reply.
It had been twenty years or so,
And she'd probably be a little older than me if she were still alive.
Further reading: An American in Dublin