Certainly, he had the legs of some spider prince of legend,
But he wore them well, like the pins on his jacket, the semiotics of which indicated
Soundness. That low rumble of his
Was a balm to me, a honey, eighteen and ketchup-red, when every act of kindness was
Salvation, a blessing applied directly to a thunderous brain. He wore his rouge
Better than me, tousled and tossed by some perfect breeze
That blew just for him, if for anyone. He was a professional
At melting ice, at asking all the right questions
And making it seem easy, he had a way about him in that unplaceable way all
Good Irish men do. When his eyes darted from person to person, finally glancing at me, it felt
like
A declaration of sorts, of worthiness, of humanity, of there you are, I see you, you're here,
really
Here. His finesse inspired me, made me think
I could be that person, that ointment, that
Antidote, that freedom for someone. We could all be, surely,
If only we were brave enough to unfurl our tongues
And just start talking.