Winter’s Song
I.
Every morning in Boston.
Every morning a girl loses her way.
Every morning the sun reopens the clouds,
yawns above the city of shrugs.
Those who are lost wear white dresses,
necklaces of leaves and tiaras of moss
and the peregrine falcon soars
from the fortieth floor of the Prudential Tower.
Leaving the Public Garden,
you wear the garb of a tired swan.
I find you, shoes emerging from the muck
along the edge of the Esplanade.
A dense fog infiltrates the canyons.
It is seventy-six degrees on November 7,
your shoulder feeling warm against my hand.
Near the water, winter idles like a thug.
II.
Every evening in Boston
Every evening a boy loses his way.
Every evening the moon hangs in shrouds,
pawns everything he owns for his drugs.
Those who are lost wear black sweaters,
mufflers of shreds and skullcaps of loss
and the exhausted seagull hovers
low over the cavernous maw of the harbor.
Leaving the night’s final subway,
you have the eyes of a hot-wired faun.
I find you, mislaid and moonstruck,
prostrate on the promenade.
Hurricane howls the canyons.
Twenty below wind chill on February 4,
your corpse slipping easy into the body bag.
Winter sips coffee slowly from his mug.
Downstream
She combs her carrot hair, unruly shock
Owns a dress but only wears her jeans
Reads poetry atop Old Baldy Rock
Skinny-dips in the shallows far downstream
This morning wearing tank top and blue jeans
She walks with me along the riverside
Says “Let’s skinny-dip a mile or so downstream”
I don’t know if I should go or hide
We walk together down the river’s side
Reaching out she grabs my shaky wrist
I search my brain for a place that I can hide
By now suggest has morphed into insist
Restoring the firmness to my floppy wrist
I make a joke, assume a hero’s stance
“Skinny-dip” I say “well I insist”
Hope that I won’t stare but only glance
Arriving downstream she strips and takes her stance
Dives in, comes up and looks me up and down
I hope she doesn’t stare, just takes a glance
I dive wearing nothing but a freckled frown
Everything that rises must come down
She combs her carrot hair, unruly shock
I leave, a smile has overwrit my frown
She’s reading poetry atop Old Baldy Rock
Bob McAfee is a retired software consultant who lives with his wife near Boston.
He has written seven books of poetry. Fours poems published in “Grand Little Things”.
For the last seven years he has hosted a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop.
Website: www.bobmcafee.com.
Grand Little Things 