It’s not much more than a mile to McGinty’s,
to which I walk when Janet’s away,
often passing by a troop of blissed out Buddhas
nam-yo-ing on the sidewalk by the Chic-Fil-A.

The burgers are thick and juicy at the pub,
and the stout is capped with foam you could cut
with a knife. I could split the burger with you,
and leave, well satisfied, after a single pint. But

man takes a drink
drink takes a drink
drink takes a man

as Therese, Bob’s wife, who bore him six kids
and has visions of the saints, once told me. She
meant it as a warning; I take it as a given. Thus I
cap the third Guinness with a Jameson. Heading

back home, a few Buddhas are still chanting, though it’s
already dark. I’m wobbling, so I walk faster to steady my
course. Reaching Sligo Creek–beyond the streetlight’s reach–
I pause to take a sparkling piss. Bliss is where you find it.

Published in the Beltway Poetry Quarterly