I couldn't stop staring at his teeth, his stained, mostly missing and a few hanging, holding on barely and hardly helpful when chewing, crooked teeth, forced to ferment in tar clouds and breathe an alcoholic's breath. And how more ironic could this sober free ethnicity beside me be, a Irish poet waiting to escape New York City, return to his home and songs and comfortable, waving fields, sweetness left untouched by construction craving city dwellers. 

"It's a nice pub," he said, one of his red graphed pupils closed, anticipating the slumber to return it was previously enjoying. "The music plays till morning wakes and night decides to take its break. My pub is a calm place, a place any weary traveler could easily find peace. And I can't wait to get home."

He, this tired, aged like a fine wine man, again, fell fast asleep. But not before offering a collection of poems he had written about his home for my perusal; so after our conversation, I read his fine verse, him snoring to his meter and there, still, being an hour before my love, my human love came home to me.