Irish

if i had some Irish blood

i supposed i could understand

my temper:

how much i sweat

and how red my face gets

(if not covered by this unthick beard

(which would probably be red,

matterofact)

and caramel skin)

would make much more

sense, would be okay,

accepted, in fact,

so much so that i would simply be

the product of my father, my mother,

Benedict, and Guinness.

instead i am an enigma,

an anomaly,

someone who missed out

when the Latin ease was handed out:

i missed the last bottle of Corona

and instead had to drink whisky.

it angrers up my non-Irish blood

(i think i'm impure).