Cyril Kelly

God bless the Pope!

God bless the Pope!

In a state of high dodging, the landlord grabbed his hat and clapped it on his head.

Perceiving the whole episode to be a set-up on Margie's part, he fumed that the bird would have to be gone before he called again.

And failing that, he would start proceedings to have Margie herself evicted.

Even though he stormed out, he didn't forget to snatch his rent from the table on his way.

One of the last things I did before going home that year for Christmas was to broker an uneasy truce with the landlord on Margie's behalf.

When I came back in January, Margie was in the Mater Hospital in intensive care.

Visits were forbidden.

In Parnell Square, hardly a stone's throw from Gardiner Street, Friday night hops resumed in Carnegie's hotel

and the nearest this young man's thoughts came to medical matters, was the alarming timpani of his pulse as he crossed the floor, dazzled by the dark eyes and dimpled smile of a student nurse from Temple Street.

When next I inquired, Margie was dead and buried.

I never did find out whatever happened to the Count.

But all of these decades later, I can still see them.

Margie, by her garage window, in the fading light, and the Count beside her on his perch, trilling.

God bless the Pope.

God bless the Pope.

This poem is called Cachal.

Crystal clear, I can see you.

Willowy, 60s teenager, precocious piano player.