Papa
mary weathers poetry
every year your birthday still comes
like a train on a route
like a force to be reckoned with
like a cruel joke
yes, you’ve faded
harsh edges softened
like the photos hidden away in boxes
but I still hear your that belly laugh
you, the man with the belly
the bright polo
the blue blazer
the gold ring
proclaiming your Irish ways
yes, I still find you on this day
and together we make your oyster stew
that December calls for