The Boy With Green Eyes Poem by michael hogan

Mother was easily deceived.
Having clear green eyes at the age of twelve
is almost as good as owning
a glib tongue much later in life.
My eyes were of the clearest green.

Hidden by the statue of Rochambeau
I and a girl from Fall River
missed Mass on a grassy spot near the Bay.

And for six weeks running
I came home each Sunday noon
chockablock high with love.
Mistaking it for grace, mother said proudly,
Just look at him, Frank.
What a fine priest he'll make some day.