I lift the white porcelain
cup, gulp a mouthful of black
tea, pick up the second half
of the jelly sandwich, content
that the twelve-hour day
at Amoskeag Mills has ended.
Since evening has already descended
along the banks of the Merrimac,
I will tend my garden plot
in the cotton mill yard tomorrow
when the clouds are not forecasted
to steal the July light. I need
to write to my cousins in Cork,
let them know that my arrival
in America in place of my brother
John has worked out for both of us.
I need to tell them that I met
Elizabeth from Limerick
and we married in Brockton
at St. Patrick’s Church before moving
north to this Irish neighborhood
in my adopted New Hampshire city
of Manchester near Dan and Annie
Sullivan. I’m not sure how long we
will stay. Liz has made the return voyage
three times across the Atlantic.
Encore (National Federation of Poetry Societies)