This poem originally appeared in Origin (Bob Arnold, editor).

To Florence

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,
rose gardening,
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.