A little something from my recently finished chapbook (titled "I Am No Saint Irene")

"Good Friday at Skiles"

Friday night I brought Kathryn to the old bar
on 8th street along with a bag
of black socks, trout lures, and
St. Brigid.
The saintly cowgirl slid into the booth across from us,
put her cowshit caked boots up and ordered
a pitcher of Amber Bock.

She sized us up with her green-gold eyes, squinted,
and shook her head.
She knew-
we sure as hell were no saints.

The pitcher arrived and Brigid poured three nearly
perfect glasses, the third spilling just
barely over the brim and dripping down to the table.
“A toast!” She cried-
“To God, beer, and a barn full of cows!”

She lifted the glass to her perfect pink lips,
took a healthy gulp, and
slammed the drink down with a scowl,
announcing that she could make better beer from
bathwater.
We didn’t argue.

Three pitchers later,
the talk has skimmed the surfaces of
the best way to grow a rosary vine, where we’re going fishing
once the weather stays good, how to split wood
properly, and who’s paying the bill.
St. Brigid got up to order another pitcher as Kathryn and I
silently slide out of the booth,
and quickly through door out to the street.
The moon was full and heavy in the sky,
weighing on our consciences as we left the bill and
the saint
in the bar.