|Jan/Feb 2000 Poetry|
St. Patrick's Horns
It's time you meet old Pat and me engaged in festive rites.
So push your way past Springsteen fans who, ponderous up-
on the porch, cavort like torpid Rosalitas, manic manatees.
You'll find us both aloof and lush on gins and tonic, twisted
limes and bitters--eulogizing passion, quoting celtic tomes.
Old Pat will talk too loud at me, lamenting art and lives gone
wrong and vainly smite with dull invective serpents of routine.
And I, while flicking red before him tongues of forked assent,
will brush discreetly asps and adders of his anglo saxon wife.