Parade me away to sweet Montana.

It was like a 50-ton bomb went off
and I was in my own version of Hell
when the smoke cleared.
Suppose a stiff cocktail or smoke in hand
would've made it slightly more tolerable.

Bagpipes blaring down the drag
with plaid skirts showing knobby knees.
Veterans with liver spots and canes
marching to the death they avoided
fifty years ago in some war or another.
Children too young to be embarrassed pulled on trailers
as they fling candy at the crowd parked in lawn chairs.
Drunken local football team has-beens
pouring lite beer into plastic cups
and heckling their neighbors as they pass.

I'm not sure how I avoided the panic attack.
Perhaps it was the distracting shrill of the party horns.

I'm not proud of a lot of the things
that I am, or can be fairly called
but I'm thankful that Irish isn't one of them.
Most of my best friends have been, though.
Maybe that makes sense.

St. Patrick is turning over in his snake pit somewhere.

I'll drink on Father's Day instead, thank you.