A Poem by Sean Casey
This poem originally appeared in Origin (Bob Arnold, editor).
By Sean Casey
Flossy, Florence, Mrs. MacKenzie—
this is Sean Casey,
son of Michael and Kathy Casey
of 9 Robandy Road,
your neighbor since 1984.
I wanted to let you know
this past Sunday, January 14, 2007,
the Patriots beat the Chargers
and so will head
to the AFC championship,
a game, as you know, they’ve never lost.
Tom Brady threw the ball well, 51 passes;
Bill Belichek (PA ‘71) called a trick play for the two point conversion.
If you have internet access where you are
Dan Shaughnessy’s Globe piece is up here.
Mrs. MacKenzie, I am sorry about your passing.
I will keep you up to date
on the Patriots’ progress
in the playoffs and, if they succeed, beyond.
Mrs. MacKenzie, this is what I know about you:
your longevity, you were 96, correct?,
was the result of good living,
and a weight lifting regimen begun in your late 80s.
Weight lifting: what a way to taunt death!
“I am old, I am weakened—I will now lift heavy weights!”
I will draw no corny comparisons
of your life to a good long season, which it probably was,
and infinite postseason, which I hope it is—
I don’t know you well enough to say.
On Sunday nights I sometimes brought your garbage out to the street.
I wanted to let you know about the game.