Where do you think he is?

Not sure. Could be in Belfast stealing pints after pubs have closed. Might be in Dublin dancing to a fiddle and a penny whistle.

You think he’s in pain?

I’d say not. He’s walking the streets of Manhattan. Sitting in Washington Square. Tickling the cheeks of college girls. Blowing kisses and bowing as they walk by.

Might be in Chicago?

Yes. Singing into microphones but no one hears. Writing poems that no one will read. Except for the lucky few. Those in the next life.

So. He’ll never rest?

Not a chance.