[pirate witch]: 524.Poetry.Remembering Boston: A Poem That Rhymes

There’s a door in a bookshop somewhere in Spain
where Christ and tobacconists drink in the rain,
where gold speckled water is poured down the drain.
I wonder, will I ever see you again?

There’s a chair by a coffee-shop in Southern France
under which severed hands teach boys to dance,
where leather upholstery won’t stand a chance.
There’s no way to reach you across this expanse.

There’s nothing but inkwells in that desert place
nothing worth joining for tea cakes and grace.
I burnt up my broomstick, sheet music, and lace
in the sharp charcoal sand just to reach you through space.

And somewhere in Cambridge we wore woolen hats
while drinking from tin cans and looking for flats
You scuffed up your silver boots running from rats,
and only in Boston could we live like that.