his hand on the wheel,
the smallest of the snakes asking,
"Are we there yet?"
Patrick wonders if it is a good idea.
It had seemed so at the time,
all those snakes among the green
demeaning the glory.
It had made him sick, those fellows
in the grass, narrow, startling.
Still, didn't even the meanest creatures
the belly-crawlers, the finaglers,
the seducers of Eden, deserve a home?
Who is he to claim Ireland only for himself?
He tells them to shut their cake-holes,
stop hissing and pissing about the ride.
He needs to think about Christ,
figure out what the Holy Spirit wants.
His fingers on the wheel turn white
as he yanks it hard, heads for home
hoping he will not regret it,
asking himself: What would Jesus do?