Black Jack
The wearing of the green
damn, if it doesn’t remind me of you
of the swashbuckling laggard you were
and the ripple of muscle across your broad back
the salt and pepper curls on your chest
and whiskers tickling my ear.
Ireland’s proud son bereft on the shores of
New England, sullen as only the Irish can be.
Black hearted when you wanted to be too.
Ah, but I saw the pot of gold
The twinkle in your eye, the swagger of
your copper tone hips, your tree trunk thighs
and the strength in your smiths hands.
Always a good ride you were.
Sure’n even the devil could takes tips from
your mischievous heart.
Yet, you were Mommy’s boy, only one woman
good enough for you and none you’d let near
enough to her throat to cut the cord.
A right fine banshee of a woman, a toothless woman
with a vipers bite. And she’ll keep her bonnie boy
lashed to her until the day she dies.
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