In order to think,
to contemplate and appreciate
dilemmas brought on by modern life,
he often took to strolling
through the public gardens,
just far enough away
from the street crowd and traffic noise,
building at the intersection
of Bolyston and Tremont,
amid the calmness of time honored trees
and sprawling greenways
that survived the patriotic acts of revolution.
Distractions down the winding,
narrow tar paths were minimal,
no vendors, beggars, prostitutes,
or public speakers attracting crowds
this day, only a place to find refuge.
So he reflected upon his quickly dissipating,
limited allotment of time,
his acquiescence to a battle
once valiantly fought,
his lack of owning responsibility,
the feigning privilege and apathy
gathering years seem to imply
and the folly of those who still engage.
A female runner skirted by,
lithe, youthful, amazingly trim,
stealing his daydream.
Boston is wonderful, he muttered,
the air so full of rebellion.
He wandered off again
into a comic reverie of pursuit
and the tender excitement of discovery.
I must find my running shoes, he mused.
CLOSET IN THE BACK BEDROOM
This was the house’s charm,
acres of seclusion
with a Victorian façade
and a veranda that rambled.
Inside, the hand carved wood décor
hid spiders and various phantom creatures
from the view of antique chairs
and furniture randomly scattered
about the living room.
It was abandoned quite sloppily,
by a woman claimed
to have suffered depression
after her husband disappeared.
Empty boxes, petrified flowers
in waterless vases, matted hair
tangled in dust kittens,
crowded the grimy tables,
while strewn on the rickety couch,
a pair of woman’s underwear.
One hundred years ago,
the home was an estate, now a relic
by a family desiring isolation,
akin to the former proprietors.
Their tour uncovered
a partial portrait of the old woman,
chests and drawers full of dresses,
sweaters, purses, old report cards,
and oddly enough three pairs of eyes
and three red tongues
of apparently blind and speechless
their dead corpses found later,
stuffed in the closet atop each other,
gagged and buried
beneath a comforter
in the far back bedroom.
Two days ago
the sun caught me stealing light
to illuminate a poem,
then reported me to Mother Nature
who posted my likeness about the land.
Soon, the ocean, forest, birds, flowers, et. al.
filed suit for substantial abuse
and complacent philandering without permission.
I pleaded guilty;
admitted taking breath from wind
marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song,
and rage from the ocean
to instill a sense of urgency.
Convicted and confined to a windowless room,
no writing, visitation
or glimpses of stolen sights,
I was sentenced to imagine beauty
and the wholesale exploitation of words.