Rooftop Dancing

The alarm mirrors the dialectic inside -
brrr Brrrr BRRRR BRRRR!!! -
as birds chirp early and often,
this is how most people awaken.

Davey? He was with the birds . . .
. . . on a rooftop, the sun soaking
into him, replacing night toxins
and renewing him for the day.

The fiddle lay at his feet,
strings smoking from a performance
prompted by whiskey, and fine good
times.

Is this living? With cigarette smoke
curling into the air? Dancing? Emoting?
Bitching to the heavens? Shaking your
neighbors out of their slumber?

The rattle of the soul, late,
does not come for all:
but, for those afflicted,
it must be worked out.
For Davey, fags and firewater
were only second fiddle.

Swapping tales like spit,
of Pakistan, of North
Korea, of motorbikes mired
in Thailand mud,
the expats were just wiling
away time, waiting for
double malt to grip Davey,
and he his fiddle.

Creases eased, lines melted,
eyes softened as he played,
the brogue returning to him as
he sang, the brogue that
got into all it touched.
Alley cat wails had n-o-t-h-i-n-g
on us -
and after this we certainly wouldn't
dare call it a
mere violin -
not as it lit up the midnight
sky like comet trails and memories.