poem of the day 04.25.11

paddy cake

she talks like
st. patrick’s day
hates the english
pours pints riding shotgun
with her irish brogue
tells us about her life
just outside of cork
how she chased an
irishman to america
in search of that allusive dream
we’ve been selling since 1776
how she took up with a yank
when it all fell apart
and had three kids
said she wants to go back
despite ireland’s troubles
has a house waiting for her
but her yank husband won’t go
doesn’t want him there anyway
but he won’t let her take the kids
and you know these
american laws, she says
throwing more beer in my pint
he’s threatened me anyway
has thrown a pitcher of water at me
in front of his own kids
the only thing i can do
is keep calling the cops
but you know the cops
they’re worse here than in ireland
and when she walks away
to fetch someone another
jim beam on the rocks
my wife leans in and tells me
that our little paddy cake
is also the waitress
at the diner we both like
and i sit there, finishing off the new draft
musing over this news
thinking what a shame
because i really liked their
egg white omelet
the one with the bacon
and cheddar cheese.