THE IDES OF MARCH 2006
When Julius Caesar met his bloody fate
The future was foretold by seers and signs.
Chicken entrails, stars, ill-omened cards,
Warned Shakespeare later as he penned his lines.
But Boston's Back Bay Station boasts no seers,
No necromancer's booth. The only writing on
The wall, last March 15, urged all to board
The New York train that I was getting on.
Ensconced alone in comfort in my seat
I read my notes and planned next day's return
(No thought thereby misfortune to provoke).
At last Penn Station was announced. We slowed
And stopped. All passengers got up but me;
I could not rise! It seems I'd had a stroke.