That pint of Guinness
was the glass eye they used
to suss out craic and ceili
Those days of Tulane in the day
Celtic ballads at night
Seisiuns and darts next door
across the carriageway

Still today a diaspora
of grad students returns
to that sweet spot
on Toulouse Street
between Decatur and Chartres
Instead of seeing tourists
slurp oysters they hear
Patrick on mandolin
Andrea on spoons
They feel like widows
and widowers remembering
a years’ long Irish honeymoon
never going to sleep
the night before Friday classes
Irish coffees topped
with hand-mixed cream and sugar
and the thing you’re supposed
to learn but no one teaches
how love shows all
its made and unmade forms