My letter opener does not show the blood
As my friend slices open
The letter denying me the equipment I need
To be more independent.
My friend says
“Well it was expensive”
Et tu Brute?
It’s the Ides of March
So polka. Just polka.
I hate this time of year
The half wintry not yet springtime
Unpredictability of it all.
Much like living with spiraling medical costs
From a disability
Without a net.
It’s the Ides of March
So polka. Just polka.
My father died on the Ides of March
I flew home the next day.
We buried him on St. Patrick’s day
Which might have ruined that day for me forever
Had not my nephew been born on it.
It’s the Ides of March
So polka. Just polka.
It’s that time of year.
My Polish friends bake me
Green soda bread
Every St. Patrick’s Day
Then take me to their club at night to dance.
It’s the Ides of March
So polka. Just polka.
Copyright 2007 Ruth Harrigan
