Karaoke Swan Song

Singing in a Woodlawn bar,
some call it the Tá Mé ´Olta,*
his battered helmet scrawled
with well-wishes, hung on a peg,
Declan serenades the empty tables
and upended chairs, ignoring that
they’ve unplugged the machine
and everyone’s gone back to the station.

He blunders on anyway (the frowning
barkeep backing on mop and wringer)
voice resonant with the baritone
he’s used to celebrate a broad plate
of calamari, or to ante up on a hand,
smiling as he thinks of Jimmie
saying they should hook him up
to a pumper he’s so full of it.

“Tis you, ‘tis you must go
and I must die,” he sings.
Not quite it, but close enough.
So sweet, it smarts his eyes,
permanently reddened from smoke
and memories of those lost in it,
them who, despite his best efforts,
he failed to follow.

* I’m very drunk.