by JO McINERNEY
Noise and smell,
the dip and rattle of trams
on tracks set in bumpy tar. The
clang of bells and swell of voices in
a lingo grim-faced women did not
approve. The language of the Pope but not
the Latin of the mass. The five o’clock
swill as men spilled from corner
pubs, clutching gladstone bags
as they swayed on buses
all the way
home.