Lucas Ferrell
We call it Cliffs for short,
I always sat in the back,
the outdoor patio always open
with wooden fence that sunk
under old world mortar.
Strings of light painted the
night sky, man’s own made stars.
Sitting at the barrels, smoke in the air
and a bottle in hand, I could see
over the cliffs from time to time.
A crowd inbound from a Hilltopper
touchdown, or the benign buzz of barflies
just trying to get past Wednesday.
Like a beacon, The Capitol marquee
ablaze right next door, calling to the
denizens of the night.
An apt name, the Cliffs of Moher, keeping
us from the plummet. A drink and
some friends to keep us from peeking
too far over that edge. We’ll sing our drunken
tunes, no lovers to be found, least not outside
of this merry band of friends and strangers.
