Goodbye, Mrs. O'Flynn

I am not carrying on with Mrs. O’Flynn
who was my housekeeper till yesterday.
A good cook she was and neat as a pin,
but a loose tongue told her I happened to say
at a parish meeting where I smothered a yawn
when the talk dragged on over some simple task,
‘‘You’re not sleeping well, are you, Father John?’’
I said, ‘‘Mrs. O’Flynn is the one to ask.’’

I only meant that she always knew
from my morning face how I spent the night,
whether at peace with myself and you
and your parish affairs. Imagine my plight
when our gossipy member tilted my words.
She has packed and gone, who will tend my house
and cook my dinner, like Elijah, the birds?
May your consciences itch like the bite of a louse.