Sliding Into Home Poem by Francie Lynch

From here they filled the sidewalk,
Three abreast, heading east towards the corner
With their balls and sticks.
The flankers often turned their heads centre.
They'd return with
Bravado and shirts around their waists.
The stories I would hear, or read.

I recall Charlie beyond the rail and altar
Filling the thurible with frankincense,
Causing smoke to rise and the bell to ring, twice.
He held a body-length candle, dressed in soutane and surplice.
On occasion, he'd faint.

Another time, Dermott sat holding his tonnette,
Wearing the green cotton shirt
Mammy fashioned from scratch
To celebrate the honour of St. Patrick.
He was, after all, the only
Other Irish boy in the hall.

Another time, the black Honda 90 radiated
At home, on the lawn.
Shining so black it absorbed the sun,
Spreading silver wings.
I felt the rush when it sped away.

At night the damp sheets would shroud me.
Tomorrow would be another catch-up day.
Sometimes Sean would stop, turn away from
The other two, and face me.
I would stand still and wait.

We learned the art of escape early.
The car roof would glide past the window,
Giving the three minute warning to collect
And disappear through the front door.
We'd scatter and re-assemble later,
Tip-toeing past the head on a pillow,
Beside the table.
No need for a 'Do Not Disturb.'
Before 'The Tonight Show'
We boiled the kettle, and saw his
Chest rise and fall.
Later, he'd frame and block the archway,
Silent, rubbing.
Then amble off.

I've seen the photos on folded, cracked surfaces
In the late cool comfort of a pew.
While thinking on miracles and staring at the lamp,
I hope for a presence,
Or a tap on the shoulder to hear:
'Your turn.'
Then I could grab the bat and straddle the cross-bar,
Step over the body and use the back door.

I presume the light still burns;
Its flame rising and falling.
Now the only sound is creaking wood,
The only colours are in the panes.
Now I can straighten the wrinkled knees,
Fluff the pillow,
And slide into home.