In the Dublin airport, in the duty-free shop,
a brand of Irish whiskey, Writer’s Tears –
So many, by now, I haven’t had to weep
and swallow, swallow and weep, and still one hears
the spirits calling – And can you not just a wee drop
take of it, lad? – Sláinte! – L’chaim! – Cheers! –
But fuck off, will yis – you know I know how deep
one drop would get – next it’s a coupla beers,
then Guinness is good for me, and no, why stop
it there until it’s another one hundred years
of Irish fuckin solitude – 	     I keep 
on moving, duty-freed. It disappears
more swiftly now, that phantom thirst. My head 
is cleared for takeoff, with the tears unshed.