Shaemus

We will go no more to Shaemus, at the Nip, for sly innuendo and an Oporto Flip, the rough but tender voice, the wide-mouthed grin, the steady-unsteady hand that poured the gin: memory, that flew back years to find a name, found it, and fetched it up, still just the same; the shaky footsteps, and then the shaky kidding: you, the big business man, outbid, outbidding, the mystery man, the man of deep affairs, highbrow, and playboy, and friend of millionaires: and you, the lovers, whose love was in your faces— there you were, back once more—and still the traces!— Yes, still the traces of that love he loved, and re-examined, but as if unmoved; the names fished up from time, or Singapore, joined and repeated on his bar once more; as if no let or hindrance were permitted; as if both time and space could be outwitted; endurance noted—in a protocol— and then embalmed, of course, in alcohol. And now himself, the immortal, lightly gone, as if stepped out for a quick one—who had none. And dead, his room inspected by his friends, to find a will, adjust the odds and ends; and there, the fifteen suits, the malacca cane, the hats, and spats: in which he roved again, far from the furnished room, the sacred bar, immortal dandy, towards an immortal star.