Nineteenth Birthday
The esplanade is empty,
painted in the grey
of maudlin self-projection.
The Charles, slow
and turgid, flows
like the effluent apathy
of Boston's huddled masses,
ice forming
along it's edges.
A solitary figure walks my way
and past
imparting Djarum
to the air we briefly share.
The scent out of place,
(allure and siren's promise
in the caverns of the Ratt',)
but here, pathetic incense
from the glass and iron temples
of the very least
of gods;
trailing,
like the fading spoor
of soft and clawless animals
with no warm den
to crawl to.
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