the voice and the verse

yesterday morning.
the Lord of the Rings types left. the strange, leathery smell left with them after a few hours, though strands of their hair stayed behind on the furniture. in the living room then was left one final musician, a bowl of chili con carne, our laundry hanging on the drying rack, only to have to be washed again.
yester day.
after climbing across two barbed wire fences and walking through miles of mud that some call bog and i call cow shit, i hitched back to the car with some dubliners who looked at me like i looked at the Lords of the Rings. just before my car was a man with a hat, vincent, rebuilding his stone wall, one stone at a time. taking out the big stones from the top, putting them aside and then pulling the small stones that were on the bottom, replacing the big stones and putting the smaller ones on top. the community has impressed upon him the need for a straight stone wall. and there are fines for resistance. i resisted the temptation of becoming a stone mason then and there and fled to the car, after the compulsory irish fifteen-minute good-bye. bye. bye. bye-now. bye-now. bye. bye-bye. the bog boots were shed, and ironically the same strange leathery smell noticed in the a.m. grew in the backseat. which makes me wonders how the others created it.
yesterday night.
the final musician played at a local bar. a well-known poet and another irish crooner did as well. in the upstairs of a swanky place, velvet curtains and candles mounted on the old stone walls, low light, honest portions of words, and a crowd's reaction to match. and then a wine bar, a long walk home, and a healthy helping of the chili con carne from the bowl on the living room floor.
this morning. the smell is still there.