by Allen Finn
Over salted pretzels and stale piss.
a woman with 5 distinct coils
of tarnished silver poking from her chins,
discussing— one personality to another—
who fed the cats and if the condensed milk was left on the stove.
A baby in a backpack narrowly avoids the jaws of the Red Line.
Drakkar Noir, Pine Sol, menthols.
a cab driver drifts between
his Bluetooth conversation,
cleaning fingerprints with a spit-soaked handkerchief
and nearly killing passengers with an ill-timed merge onto Mass. Ave.
A shop that deals only in houndstooth hats is having a sale.
Ocean-air, whiskey, and crab rangoon.
the Seaport Hotel at 1 Seaport Way
offers views of the harbor,
a pillow library,
and room service until 12:30 a.m. (on Fridays and Saturdays).
We browse magazines and laugh and Boston looks beautiful from the 14th floor.
Congratulations on your first published poem, Allen. Love the last line in particular. Great job.
ReplyDelete