The Irish,

They've moved on

From the clatter of

The EL

In Woodside,

Blissville, Sunnyside

To the chatter of birds

in places named after Indians

Long dead, long ago displaced

For immigrants

Who came here with a deed

Endorsed by God, issued by a Queen.

Here still is Sean's Pub,

where the wood is as shiny as the brass,

and only the clink and glimmer of coins

in the basket next to Shamus' tips -- the

one for "the cause" -- for the folks back home

out shine and out echo the sound of banshees,

ghosts of wives hunting down husbands

who have forgotten their way home

and who still today are as invisible as they were then.

The EL does not drown them out.

The EL does not shadow their past

The faces and sounds of Cops

Of stone masons, of farmers who planted their heels at the post office.

Of Women who would sew or clean, or wait tables

so that their children could attend mass looking fine and proper.

The Irish, they've moved on.

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