Fierce kisses in the middle

of Grafton Street

upscale place-to-be-seen

in the city center

strung with holiday lights

and glistening bells.

Buskers singing opera

sharing the brick walkways

with wizard-costumed

mimes.

Meeting Kiernan Kinnell

at O’Leary’s Pub

I found him sitting at the bar

iPhone parked and ready.

He kissed me on the cheek

and gave my jet-lagged body

a squeeze,

his touch hardened

by rough negotiations

and hinting of roguish intentions.

Drawn to his wit, flattered

to attract the eye of a man

so close to power,

the consummate story-teller

consulting with the

heavy-hitters of  Ireland’s elite

power-brokers.

He used poetic phrases to tell

me of his reckless proposals-

government and otherwise.

We could have fun together, couldn’t we?

he whispered in my willing

ear,

beefy hand rested heavy on my thigh.

Kiernan steps outside for a third call

the Prime Minister’s man,

he smiles and reminds me,

used to calling the shots and assuming command.

We finish our pints

so he can race back to the office

for a late-night meeting.

Outside

Dublin rain

sleeting  our faces

his embrace

smothering me

leather jacket

Guinness soaked

tongue promising

delights

proposing

a risqué romp

in the Wicklow mountains

pulse racing

body bracing

sensing danger

reluctant, willing

pulling away from

fierce kisses in the middle

of a wicked Irish night.