when Irish eyes are bloodshot
Your cousin's coming over, dear--won't you wear that green dress?
Not likely mother--and not for Shame... Us.
It's Seamus, dear--one word
I've heard it from you and father often enough--I was sure it was two.
My mother's cousin arrives, already "into his cups"
A lovely description for a stinking, bulbous man
Who lost his wit to whisky long ago.
Can this be young...
I won't say it--he uses that name.
No priest sprinkled Dythandra on me,
And none ever will.
My how you've grown
I notice where he's looking
Why do we tolerate him again?
He comes every March 17 without fail
Misses the Ides by two days;
I'd overlook his lateness if they'd give me the knife.
Celebrating St. Patrick--
He drove out the snakes,
But left the Catholics.
No wonder they blow each other up.
Why aren't you wearing green?
He slurs, later--so far into his cups
We'll have to throw a rope to get him out.
"I am", I explain.
Then I guide his booze-blurry eyes
To the lettering of the pro-choice button on my shirt.
No pinches for me.
If you want me, I'll be upstairs.
Listening to an old Sinnead O'Connor album.
2 comments:
Final verdict: quit teaching and become a writer. You'd make so much money and everyone would love you because they'd love your stuff. You're a genius!
I agree. I've been waiting for another poem for the longest time from you. This was a good one. You are a champion.
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